


Sunspots

by Sebastian_Jack



Series: The Tragedy of Darth Annihila the Untamed [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Assassination Plot(s), Betrayal, Brendol Hux's A+ Parenting, DID I WRITE CRACK?, Emperor Armitage Hux, Execution, F/M, Femdom, Fix-It of Sorts, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Ghost Ben Solo, Force Ghost(s), Gender Role Reversal, I promise this all comes together, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Infidelity, Is this crack?, Is this what crack is?, Kylo Ren is Not Matt the Radar Technician, Multi, No this can't be crack it simply can't, Post-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Psychological Torture, Public Humiliation, Sith Training (Star Wars), Sith'ari, Sniper Armitage Hux, That's Not How The Force Works (Star Wars), Torture, acting out for attention, imperial consort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 77,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28067286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sebastian_Jack/pseuds/Sebastian_Jack
Summary: "Peel off our skin we're gonna burn what we were to the ground.Fuck in the fire and we'll spread all the ashes around.I wanna kill away the rest of what's left and I do.Yes I do."An exploration of what victory would have looked like for Armitage Hux and Ap'Lek Ren, had they killed Kylo in the throne room.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Original Female Character(s), Clan Techie (Dredd)/Matt the Radar Technician, Clan Techie (Dredd)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Tragedy of Darth Annihila the Untamed [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2056023
Comments: 10
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This should go without saying, but don't read this unless you've read Perihelion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We pick up immediately after the Battle of Crait. Which went much differently, I assume, with Hux and Ap'lek in the AT-AT rather than... Kylo... Wanting every gun they have to fire on Luke Skywalker... #thatsenough

“What now?” Hux asks, passing her his cigarette.

“I’m going to fuck you again,” she replies, taking a deep, comfortable drag. “And again, and again, and again.”

In all of the countless moments in which Hux had fretted and obsessed over this woman— miserable, lonely nights spend torturing himself with memories of their sole encounter, agonizing council meetings where he couldn’t tear his gaze from the blank, unreadable visage of her mask, wondering if she was thinking of him, too —he had never once imagined that Ap’lek Ren would feel this _comfortable_.

It wasn’t that he expected her to be so cruel all the time. It’s just that he never expected to find himself lying beside on the floor of his quarters, sharing a cigarette, as their heartbeats finally begin to slow. He’d hauled his silver-white Nexu pelt down from the back of his sofa, as a buffer from the cold, metal surface. He’s reclined on his side, head propped up on his hand as he studies her form. She’s stretched out on her stomach, long and lean and relaxed. Well-fucked, by the glow in her pale skin, but he thinks he can do better. He’d like to try.

They’d wasted no time, after their return to the Finalizer, undressing each other while they were kissing at the door to his rooms. Between kisses, she bemoaned how long it had taken him to utilize the damnable siege cannon on Crait and put an _end_ to that protracted battle so they could get back to the ship and do _this_. When he’d kissed her ear and whispered that she shouldn’t speak to her Supreme Leader that way, he thought she’d come right there, in the doorway.

He held her in his arms and fucked her against the closed doors, ignoring repeating knocks and chimes from desperate subordinates seeking guidance. Kylo was dead. Snoke was dead. Organa, and that scavenger from Jakku. They needed _orders_. But their Supreme Leader had other priorities.

_“I’m going to fuck you again, and again, and again—"_

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he chides softly, though he can’t help but smile. With feather-light fingers, he traces along the notches of her spine. “I mean where do we go from here? What’s our next move?”

“You and I were hewn of the same stardust, I think,” she whispers, ignoring the question entirely, “Born to be nothing, raised to be expendable.”

“Yes,” he murmurs, taking the cigarette back, “I suppose I agree.”

“Neither you nor I were ever allowed to be children, is that true?”

He nods, and then realizes she can’t see him. “Yes. That’s true.”

“Tell me.”

It feels like she’s reached into his chest to clench her fist around his heart. “You already know,” he deflects, “You’ve seen it.”

“Yes, but I want to hear it from you.”

It’s a long moment before he can think of how to reply. “I was… Illegitimate. My father was an Imperial General, and my mother… A kitchen maid.” The vulnerability should make him sick. It’s what he’d expected to feel. But, somehow, this merciless killer, this precision weapon, makes him feel… _Safe_. And so, he admits, “My father beat me rather horrifically.”

“And yet, here you are,” she says, “My Supreme Leader.”

“Yes,” he nods, strangely reassured by her words, “Because I took matters into my own hands. I killed him, and usurped his position.”

“How?”

He hesitates. “His blaster misfired.”

“Did it, really?”

“No.”

After a pensive beat, she appraises, “Good. I’d have killed him, too.”

“What about you, then?” Hux asks, taking a deep drag from his neglected cigarette, “I suppose Dathomirian women aren’t allowed to be young.”

“No,” she says, “Of course not.”

“Who were your parents?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, and he can sense some hesitation, “They say I’m descended from the Nightsister Shelish and some… Force-sensitive Human man, I suppose. But that’s only because of my hair.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Your hair?”

“It would mean nothing to you, I realize,” she explains, taking the cigarette from his hand, “But black hair is as rare for Dathomorians as orange is for Humans.”

“Red, darling,” he’s quick to correct, “You call this _red_.”

“It’s not red,” she swiftly negates, “It’s orange. Nevertheless, I suppose we’re both… Oddities, in that way.”

“I see.”

“But such things mean little on Dathomir. Lineage and family names.” She sighs deeply, eyes flitting away self-consciously. “To be honest, Armitage, I don’t even know that I was born there.”

The admission stuns him. That planet, that _culture_ , is so deeply ingrained in her that it’s difficult to imagine that she could’ve come from anywhere else. He wonders, briefly, who raised her, since he knows that Ul’Zabrak was her first language. And then he wonders how much of who she has become is performative. He wonders if she feels the need to convince herself, as much as everyone else. Convince herself that she’s a _devsta’rak._

“Armitage,” she cautions, and he can hear the veiled hurt in her voice.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry.”

“I did grow up on Dathomir,” she defends, refusing to divulge who she had been raised by, “And when Skywalker came looking for children to train, I’m the only one they were willing to give up. Just a wisp of a thing, entirely alone in the Galaxy. I would’ve been ten, by your understanding. Kylo came and went for the next three years or so, until one day he simply… Stayed. And then Snoke and Ren contacted us.” She sighs deeply. “ _’You’ll be the next Asajj Ventress_ ,’ they said. ‘ _We’ll make you a warrior. A Queen_.’ But after Kylo’s revolution on Yavin-4, it was all too clear that he had been the cherished one, all along. In me, they’d only ever seen a pawn. Someone to kneel before the blood of Vader, so he could step on my back while he rose to power.”

“Born to be nothing,” he murmurs, “Expendable. Rather like the bastard son of Brendol Hux.” His heart aches so unexpectedly for her. For them both. And the most disarming thought occurs to him, then. More sentimental than he’d ever expected to feel, least of all towards her. They’ve traversed the Galaxy for decades, lightyears apart. Entirely separate from one another. Arkanis and Dathomir. Corellia and Yavin 4. Coruscant and Elphrona. And yet… _And yet_ … Through it all, they’d somehow managed to find each other. By what astronomical odds did their paths cross? By what flickering chance? That, in their separate, universal insignificance, they came together and _made themselves significant_. It fills him with a strange sense of hope.

Perhaps it was no chance at all. Perhaps it was fate.

She looks up at him, those silver eyes wide and shining. “I never through you were expendable, Armitage.”

He swallows hard, trying not to let his vulnerability show. “No?”

“Underestimated, yes. Overlooked, despite your best efforts. But I saw the power in you from the beginning.”

He swallows hard, looking away.

“I would have crawled to you, Armitage,” she whispers, “If only you had asked it of me.”

He can think of no response for her. All he wants is for her to keep talking, keep telling him about her life, keep pouring praise over him. He wants to drown in the words as they spill from her lips, for once so freely, because he can’t remember the last time he felt this _real._ The feeling it instills borders on blissful delirium. He’s spent his entire life fighting to be something worth being noticed, admired, and _feared_ , and the last two years have been nothing but horror. A constant backslide, watching the scope of his control narrow to a pinhole. Abused by Kylo, taken for granted by Snoke, whom he only _ever_ served with loyalty. And, each day, seeing less and less of the man he knew when he looked in the mirror.

But now it’s over. It’s over, because they’ve _won_.

“Where did you get this?” Ap’lek abruptly asks, running her hand along the pelt, “It’s exquisite.”

“I killed it,” he says, more than a little proud, “Stalked it and killed it myself.”

“And skinned it?”

“ _Field dressing_ is what that’s called, my dear,” he corrects, taking his cigarette back, “But yes. On leave from the Academy, years ago.”

“Where?”

“Chol—” He narrows his eyes. “Are you being stupid, or is this some sort of a test?”

She smiles. For perhaps the first time in his presence, she really, genuinely _smiles_. “Yes.”

He rolls his eyes, but can’t resist smiling back. “Cholganna.”

She has to admit: it is impressive. For a Force-null Human man. “Aren’t you just a vicious thing,” she teases, her smile turning wry and strangely playful as she rolls over into his arms.

“I am.” He bends to drag his teeth along her throat. “And you were right, what you said on that transport ship. On Starkiller.”

She leans into his touch, reaching up to weave her fingers through his fiery hair. “That I’ll do more than amuse you?”

“No,” he whispers, breath hot on her ear, “I _am_ a hedonist.”

It makes her shudder. “That’s not in keeping with _regulation_.”

“ _I_ make the regulations, now,” he reminds her.

“Yes,” she breathes, rolling onto her back. “Yes, you do.”

He casts his cigarette away with uncharacteristic carelessness, settling in between her legs again. His hands snake up her sides, slipping her arms up above her head and winding their fingers together. She gasps, craning up for his lips, but he bends to lick the salt from her throat instead.

“I couldn’t get you out of my head, you know,” she announces strangely, “After Hosnia. You were just so… Frustrating. So frustratingly attractive. Just… Such a fascination, a distraction. Even after we tore each other apart, I wanted _more_ , I wanted to…” She gasps, a ruined, desolate sound, “I wanted to strap you to a chair and keep you there until I _understood_.”

“F- _fuck_ ,” he gasps, struggling against an uncooperative tongue. The image rises in his mind of her standing over him as he lies bolted to one of those horrific interrogation tables. Blindfolded, maybe gagged. Mouth pinned open. Bare skin raked over with her lashes, and her hand tightening around his— _Fuck_.

“I didn’t know if I wanted to fuck you or kill you. Devour you whole, bathe in your blood. It changed, moment to moment. No one has ever done that to me. I… _Ahh_ , I wanted to tear you apart and see what you were made of, how you came to be,” she pants, “Crack your chest open, crawl inside your ribcage. I wanted to _take_ something from you and keep it for myself. I still want that. But I didn’t know what to call it, I didn’t…”

“You know what I’m made of,” he nudges, but suddenly he can’t stop imagining what it would be like to fold his ribs around her, let her curl up around his heart.

“We’ve done it, you know,” she murmurs, and coaxing him to look at her. “We survived. In this Galaxy, the weak are but meat. And the strong must consume them to survive. It’s in our nature. We… We conquerors.”

“ _Survive_.” He scoffs quietly, brow knitting together slightly. “I don’t want to survive. I want to thrive. I want…” He dips back down and inhales a sharp, shuddering breath, as though trying to taste the scent of her. “I want… _Everything_. And we could have it. Empires have been built upon far less than… Than this thing, between us.”

She blinks down at him. “What?”

“Warrior,” he murmurs against her skin, “You are _such_ a warrior, Ap’lek Ren.”

Her throat constricts, eyes stinging.

“And if you’ll have me,” he whispers in her ear, “I _will_ make you a Queen.”

“No,” she blurts.

“No?” He looks up, shocked and suddenly afraid. _Well, then, what the hell are we_ doing _here, Ren?_

“No, my Starkiller,” she whispers, tracing her thumb along his lips, “No, I’m going to make you an _Emperor_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Insert Perihelion Epilogue Here*


	2. Chapter 2

7 years later

The Emperor strides off the lift, at the top of the Council Spire, and the small assembly of Sith acolytes bow deeply. They look alarmingly out of place in the multicolored light cast by the stained-glass windows. Most of the windows, he realizes, are open; hence the biting, high-altitude cold.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” one of the offers, “If you seek an audience with—”

“ _Seek an audience with_?” he interrupts, disgusted, “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“ _Ri Sith’ari_ was very clear in her instruction: she does not want to be disturbed until her meditation is complete.”

Hux turns his gaze upwards. He can see her hanging overhead. “Annihila!” he shouts, impatient.

One hundred feet above, the Empress slams back into her body, violent and premature. She opens her eyes, staring up at the ceiling. She can hear Hux making a scene, down below, and she scowls.

 _I’ll kill him_ , she thinks, almost meaning it.

“ _Qorit_ ,” she commands, exasperated, “Bring me down.”

Her acolytes unhitch the chains anchored to the floor, and begin to lower her to the ground. Hux watches with a blend of horror and dark fascination as the distance between them closes. She’s completely naked, hanging not from a harness, but from massive hooks through her skin and muscle. Two seem to be looped under her collarbones, and three more pairs line their way down her torso. The last set attaches near her hips. Her chest is thrust upward, arms spread wide.

She always does this before a battle; her strange, Sith practice of pain, meditation, and transcendence. He’s had the process described to him before, and he’s seen the wounds in her skin that linger for days afterwards. But this is the first time he’s actually witnessed the ritual.

Her feet touch down gracefully, and when she has the slack in the chairs, she rises to stand. Her acolytes fold in immediately, beginning to slip the razor-sharp hooks from her skin. Trickles of blood follow in their wake, but she doesn’t even flinch. He grimaces at the sight.

“What?” she asks, more pointedly than he’d have liked.

He crosses his arms over his chest, surveying the scene through critical eyes. “It’s freezing in here.”

Her face hardens like a warning.

“Why do you do this?” he asks, gesturing vaguely towards his Empress, “It’s completely sickening.”

Her eyes crackle with fire, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “You hauled me down here…” she shakes her head in disbelief, “So you could ask me _what I was doing up there_? Armitage—”

“No,” he interrupts, trying to focus on something other than the meathooks being pried from her skin, “We need to talk.”

“And I’m sure His Majesty is aware that I’m leaving with the fleet in two hours,” she sneers, “To campaign for _him_.”

“Hence the pressing need.”

Her acolytes drape a plain, black robe over her shoulders, and she ties it around her waist. “Then please, tell me how I can serve my Emperor today.”

He straightens up, meeting her gaze fearlessly. “I’m coming with you,” he announces, “And I want to be on the ground, tomorrow, on Corellia.”

She rolls her eyes, shoving past him for the lift. He follows, closing them in together for the long descent.

“I’m not joking!” he impresses, trying to mask the sting of her dismissal.

“No,” she argues, “ _If_ you knew what you were talking about, you wouldn’t make jokes. Alas, here we are.”

“I didn’t come here to ask your permission!” he snaps, defensive, “I came to notify you!”

“Heart of my heart,” she says tiredly, rubbing at her forehead, “ _Why_? Where is this coming from?”

He straightens up. “I fear I’ve become… _Detached_ from that element of our conquest, and I’d like to remedy that.”

“There’s no more _conquest_ ,” she argues, “This is a momentary uprising. Some erstwhile revolutionaries, angry with how your old Academy friends run their factories. But we’re not going to be able to build any more ships until I go down there and fix—"

“I want to help.”

“You’re our _ruler_ ,” she counters, “This is my job, not yours.”

“ _Your job_ ,” he scoffs.

The lift slows to a halt on the ground floor, and the doors open with a hiss.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she reiterates, striding into the corridor.

“Then show me!” he parries, giving quick chase, “I need to see it!”

“You’re far too valuable to this Empire,” she argues, turning for their residence, “I won’t risk your life over this.”

“ _Risk_ —?” He’s taken aback. “ _You’ve_ led virtually every frontline assault we’ve—”

“I’m a warrior.”

Shock and indignation flare up in his chest. He catches her by the wrist, yanking her around to face him. “And I was, too, once,” he seethes, “You don’t get to where I am without bloodying your hands along the way.”

She has to stifle the urge for cruel, mocking laughter. _Warrior_ , what an amusing thought. _My sweet, little, Human man_. For a moment, she thinks to point out that rigging one’s father’s blaster to mis-fire does not a warrior make. But that would likely earn her a bruise the shape of his signet ring, and she doesn’t want him to hurt his hand. So, instead, she rips her arm from his grip, and turns to enter their residence. “I’m not entertaining this with you, Armitage.”

Three more acolytes are waiting expectantly, bearing her array of weapons and armor. They bow.

“ _Ki Rizûti_ ,” she greets, and she sheds her black robe so they can dress her.

“I’m not asking your permission,” he reiterates, frustration mounting.

“Yes, you are,” she snaps, “That’s why you’re chasing me around the palace, instead of boarding the _Maul_ to wait until such a time as it would be pointless for me to send you away.”

As usual, she’s cut him to the quick. Indignant, he straightens up, looks her right in the eye. “And the thought never crossed your mind that I’m _chasing you around the palace_ because I love you?”

She meets his gaze, equal parts frustrated and baffled. What a manipulative little tactic. After a tense beat, she exhales a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “Armitage… _Fine_ ,” she concedes, “Come to Corellia. Witness your war.”

His heart picks up a beat, lips curling into a triumphant smile. He lunges for her, taking her face in his hands and pressing a hard kiss to her mouth.

“Get out of here, before I change my mind,” she commands, “I’m leaving this planet the instant I’m ready to, and I won’t wait around for you.”

* * *

Eight hours later, the Emperor stands alone in the Imperial residence aboard the _Maul_. Miles below, the blue marble of Corellia awaits. The massive, curved pane of Transparisteel in front of him makes it seem as though nothing at all stands between him and the cold void of space; nothing keeping him from reaching out and running his fingers along the mountains and seas of that planet, stirring them up into frenzy.

There is fear in him, now, he cannot deny it. It has been many, many years since he’s seen real combat. His mind has become honed by the tactical and political concerns of command, of Senate floors and long council tables. He kills with words, now, with orders. Not with weapons. The trophies he takes come in the form of stars and planets and palaces, not pelts.

Across the room, his custom-designed armor and weapons are laid out, neat and ready. Every piece is blood-red, at the Empress’ suggestion. “ _So they never see you bleed_ ,” she’d said. Cunning and wise as ever.

In truth, he has begun to feel like a kept man. Emperor, yes. Infallible demagogue, brilliant orator, and self-made Supreme Leader of the Galaxy. But, while his woman goes to war, he waits.

Behind him, the door slides open, and then closes again.

“It’s strange,” Annihila murmurs after a pause, “Seeing you here.”

He nods. “It’s strange being here.”

She joins him before the massive viewport, and his heart skips a beat at the sight of her. She’s draped in some sort of opulent nightdress, the plunging neckline of which nearly reaches her navel. A red gemstone hangs from a long chain around her neck.

“What is this?” he remarks, picking it up to examine it. “I’ve never seen this before.” After a moment, it dawns on him: Kyber. He casts her a guardedly wounded look. “Ani.”

She takes it from his hands, letting it fall back against her chest. “A token of the first victory we shared,” she diplomatically explains, “I wear it into battle for luck.”

“The Sith don’t believe in luck.”

“Perhaps not,” she allows, “But I believe in us. I believe in the power of this union.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “That’s a bit cliché and sentimental, for you.”

She runs a hand up the back of his neck, curling her fingers through his hair. “It makes it no less true.” Her lips meet his sweetly, gently. Again, so unlike her. It feels like one of her damnable hooks behind his heart, drawing him in.

The words come spilling from his throat before he can bite them back. “You loved him.”

“I did,” she nods, “I had never known such a Dark, terrible beauty, and so I loved him with all of my heart, every day of my life, until I didn’t. People are not rain, or snow, or autumn leaves, my love. They are not beautiful when they fall. So, I rent his head from his shoulders, and crushed his blade in my fist.”

The memory disturbs and exhilarates him in equal measure. He’d reached for his blaster in the throne room, so sure, so _ready_ , but it would take more than a blaster wound to the chest to fell Lord Ren. It was a stupid mistake. He’s alive, now, because _she_ saved him. While his feet scraped against the floor, while he clawed impotently at his throat, she drew her sabers, and…

She frightens him, sometimes.

Annihila senses his unease, and feels an odd pang of regret. Her comment about Kylo had not been meant as a threat.

“Where do we stand?” she asks, slipping from his arms to gaze down on the planet.

It takes a moment for him to get back on track, and remember where they are, what they’re doing. Finally, he tells her, “Our terms have been delivered, and they have 12 remaining hours to comply.”

“They won’t,” she says confidently, “They almost never do.”

He swallows hard, gaze fixed on the planet below.

“Stay by my side, tomorrow,” she softly commands.

“I will,” he nods.

She steps behind him, slipping her arms under his to hold him close. She can feel his heart racing beneath her palm. She can sense in him the desperate need for order and certainty, but those are scarce commodities in the world she inhabits; this world that he seems so eager to join her in. The things she does for him, for this Empire, are rarely planned and predictable. But she’ll do what she can to soothe him, now, because a frightened man, even an Emperor, is a battlefield liability.

That, and she loves him with all of her heart, every day of her life.

So, she walks him through it again. “In the morning, you and I will go down on the _Night Buzzard_ , accompanied by my Knights, and four of your private guard. We’ll hover over CorSec Plaza, while my men storm the Peace and Security headquarters. After that, we’ll move our forces up the main roadway to the Temple of the True Vine, and force them to release the trade officers.”

“And if they don’t?”

She sighs deeply, resting her chin on his shoulder. “If they don’t, then you’ll come back up here where it’s safe and I’ll do what I do best.”

He takes her hand, lifting it to his lips. She can feel him shaking.

“Just stay by my side,” she whispers, “Keep your finger off the trigger. And remember that there can be no courage without fear.”

“No courage without fear,” he repeats, turning in her arms. “What would my _devsta’rak_ know of fear?”

“I do not fear death,” she whispers, “Death is a consequence. And a necessary one.”

“Explain.”

She considers it for a moment before responding. “There can be no triumph without trial. No reward without risk. They complement one another like… Like your scotch and cigars. Without one, the other seems hollow.”

 _Like Armitage and Annihila._ He allows the thought to linger so indulgently in his mind; hoping, simultaneously, that she hears him and doesn’t.

“Yes,” she nods, giving him one of her delicious half-smiles, “Yes. To know that this, all of this, is finite, that it will someday _end_ , is the very thing that makes it worthwhile. It allows us to enjoy what beauty we can cling to.”

_I’ll cling to you._

At that, she exhales a short laugh. “Death is but a moment, my love. A change of state. I only hope that my demise comes on a battlefield. That in the end, the distillation of all I am, all that I ever was, can make our Empire, our _legacy_ , stronger. Yes…” she nods, looking down at the planet, “Death is the easy part.”

The Emperor cannot hide the twitch of annoyance on his face. “Excuse me?”

She turns to look at him, then, silver eyes gleaming with so much assurance. So much imploring. “I would rather die tomorrow and await your arrival in the Netherworld, than live all the lifetimes gifted to me by Shadow alone.”

“Ani…”

“I mean that,” she interrupts, forcing his attention with a finger under his chin, “Armitage. You are all that I have ever loved. Without you, without _this_ , all the color of this plane would fade forever from my sight.”

His eyes search so desperately across her face. Pleading for more.

“ _Fuck_ anyone who isn’t us,” she says, “Everyone in this Galaxy could die, right now, and I wouldn’t care for an instant. _We_ are all that matters.”

His response comes in the form of a violent kiss. He’s still shaking, and more aware of it, now. He _does_ fear death. He fears his, he fears hers. On one count, and one count only, Annihila is correct: death is a consequence. It would be the consequence of his own carelessness, or bravado, or overconfidence. But _his_ fault, he’s sure of it. The beautiful, precision weapon standing before him would never make a mistake so fatal as to kill them both. She sees more than that. She loves him more than that.

No. It’s not an eventuality he can entertain, right now, no matter how sweetly she describes it to him.

She allows his kiss for a long moment, before withdrawing to press her lips to his forehead. “Heart of my heart,” she murmurs gently, “You should sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” he swiftly negates, taking her hand and slipping it down his chest, further and further. Romanticism (or, rather, any Human expression of it) comes so infrequently from her. Despite himself, despite how much he loves that vicious side of her, he is only a man. And he does so love to hear her say such things.

She’s quick to argue. “I don’t fuck before going to war.”

He grimaces at the implication. “I should certainly hope not.”

“I’m not joking, Armitage.”

“What am I meant to do, then?” he asks, perhaps more pointedly than he’d intended.

Annihila sighs deeply. The last thing they need is a real fight, now, on the eve of battle. But he’s already interrupted her meditation, followed her halfway across the Core, and pestered her about the Kyber crystal, and she’s not about to let him spoil her focus in this way, too.

She turns him around, pointing down at the planet below. “Look down there,” she commands, “In a day’s time, it will all be yours.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes,” she whispers, lips dragging against his ear, “I do. Because I’m going to bring it to you.”

* * *

Hux has never liked riding in the _Night Buzzard_. It’s a loud and brutal thing, like the men who crew it, rattling through the sky with no grace. A blunt instrument. But he’s aboard it now, punching through atmos, flanked by his cadre of personal guards. He sits on the long bench seat, waiting in tense silence. The very model of regal composure and hard determination, despite the tension gnawing away behind his eyes. Annihila stands at the viewport, watching as the battle grows closer and closer.

He’d watched, that morning, as she adorned her face for battle. She’d painted a wide stripe of red across her eyes, and drawn three thin lines from the bottom of her lip down to her chin. Like rivulets of blood. Half of her hair is pulled back from her face, tied behind her head.

He wishes he could be as calm as she looks, now, leaning casually against the hull, legs crossed demurely at the ankles. The rest of her Knights are scattered across the ship, honing weapons, adjusting armor and helmets. They’re joking and laughing with each other as though this were the most normal thing in the world. _It is_ , he realizes. _For them_.

All at once, he hears her voice in his head. _There was a time when it was normal for you, too,_ she reassures.

He meets her gaze, guardedly imploring.

She steps over to run her hand along his jaw. “My Starkiller,” she whispers proudly, “Heart of my heart.”

Oddly enough, it bolsters his strength.

As they descend, Annihila steps away to join Kuruk in the cockpit. She leans down over his shoulder, studying the snarl in the streets below. Her clones have stormed the Plaza, and are working on the front doors of the Peace and Securities building. She takes a rough estimate of force sizes and visible ordnance, doing some quick math.

“Oh, this won’t take long at all,” she remarks.

“No,” Kuruk agrees, “We knew it was gonna be an easy one, that’s why they’re all playing grab-ass back there.”

She points through the windscreen. “There,” she commands, “Bring us to a ten-meter hover over the square.”

“This is a bad idea,” he cautions for the hundredth time, nosing them down towards the battlefield.

“Just fly the ship, darling,” she commands absently, intent on the scene below.

He exhales a mirthless chuckle. “Mother knows best.”

She smirks, palming his helmet and pressing her lips to the cold steel before turning away. “Yes, she does.”

He gasps comically. “I’m telling Armie you did that!”

“You’re the only one in the Galaxy who calls him that,” she reminds him.

As she walks away, he calls over his shoulder, “He’s not my real dad!”

When she reappears in the main hold, Hux wrangles his facial expression into something hard and sure.

“Look alive, nerf herders,” she commands, toeing at Vicrul’s boot. As they stand, she turns to Hux. “Are you ready?”

He stands, rolls his shoulders back confidently, and steps over to join her at the door. His guards follow, but he waves them back. “Yes.”

Cardo and Vicrul flank their Lord, weapons drawn.

She grips the handle, looking him in the eye. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he insists, taking hold of one of the straps hanging from the ceiling, “Do it.”

“Alright,” she nods, “Here we go.” With a violent pull, she rolls the door back, and exposes them to the battle below. The Knights immediately kneel the doorway, weapons brandished, ready to fire.

The first thing he notices is the noise. Deafening screams, punctuated by the constant pop and whiz of blaster fire. Explosions, the churn of wheels and machines. The sound of the clones trying to carve through the doors and ram them down. And then the wind gusts, and the smell hits him, like he’s run into a brick wall. Burning flesh, spilled oil, and hot, coppery blood. So much blood he can nearly taste it. The Corellian rebels are shooting down at her battalion from the windows of the Peace and Securities offices, while the militia sends wave after wave of foot soldiers to try and stop them breaking into the fortress.

Vain and valiant efforts, made by cannon fodder.

Annihila stands in the doorway, hair whipped back from her face as she follows Hux’s gaze across the chaos. “They could’ve holed up in that building for months, if they’d been smart,” she says, leaning close so he can hear her over the noise. “Virtually every weapon worth a damn is stored in there. They could’ve brought in food and water, barred the door. There are even tunnels, underground, they could’ve brought people in.”

“Or they could’ve stayed in line,” he pointedly reminds her.

“Precisely. This—” she points down at the thickening blanket of corpses below, trampled beneath bootheels, rolled over by cruel wheels, “This was _their_ choice.”

“What are we doing about the tunnels?” he asks.

“Our spies mapped them weeks ago, and we have firewalls at every entrance point. That’s where most of your troopers are. I needed men with _brains_ to handle that, not my _Tsaiwinokka Hoyakut_.”

Her acolytes’ term for the clone army. Something like “zombies,” as he understands it.

A few of the rebels have begun to take notice of the _Buzzard_ , eyes upturned in fear and disbelief. No one seems to want to be directly beneath the ship, so they run blindly into the clone forces.

“I want to go down,” Hux announces, itching for a trigger to pull. She was right: this used to be his ‘normal’, and he’s starting to remember. The familiar exhilaration of it is beginning to thump in his chest.

“Not here,” she says, as three more rebels fall from the windows of the Peace and Securities building, “When we get to the Temple, I’ll cut you a path, and—” Something catches her attention; a single, sharp pinprick at the base of her skull. Her voice tapers to silence, brow knitting together as she scans the crowd.

Hux puts a hand on his blaster, eyes traveling across her face. “What?”

All at once, Annihila roars in anger, lunging in front of him. Her arm whips out violently, hand clenching into a fist. She freezes, perfectly still, and it’s then that he sees the crackling blue beam floating mere feet from his face; held at bay by the strength of her will alone.

Only then does the adrenaline come shooting through his body, filling his veins with painful, prickling ice. _That was so close, my god, it was so close._ His ears ring with sudden silence, and a quick glance confirms his suspicion: the battle has ground to a virtual standstill, all eyes turned upward in shock and fear.

He watches with a kind of detached horror as the blaster beam begins to compress, folding in on itself and knitting into a frenetic tangle of blue light. It hums and pulses dangerously, sending sparks and flares of heat out in every direction. Growing. And then she opens her hand. The beam rockets backwards, away from the ship, and detonates over the battlefield. The burst of white light is blinding, and eerily silent, followed by a solid wall of heat and pressure. The _Buzzard_ is rocked back, alarms chiming and flashing in protest, and he has to grab the doorway for support. Everyone on the ground—rebels, Stormtroopers, and clones alike— is bowled over by the percussion.

The Imperial guards rush to his side, but he commands them back, regaining his footing and composure. While the fear does not show on his face, Annihila can sense his terror. A kind of vicious, protective instinct rears up in her chest for him; fury hammering at the walls of her ribcage.

Cardo rises to stand beside his Lord, cocking his arm cannon and pointing it down into the crowd. All who can, scatter from his range. “He’s there,” he says.

“I see him,” she nods, opening her palm to the ground and beckoning.

From the snarl of bodies rises a single fighter, still clinging to his blaster, even as he claws for his own throat. With a dismissive wave of her free hand, Annihila sends the offending weapon spinning from his grasp. It shatters apart against the cobblestones below. She can see, now, that he’s not a man so much as a boy, young and stupid. By his clothing, he’s just a kid who decided to pick up the family gun and join in the fight.

And then, driven by either madness or arrogance, he decided it would be a good idea to shoot that gun at the Emperor.

He has the look of a frightened animal caught in a trap. His legs kick ineffectually beneath him, eyes wide and glassy and bloodshot as he hangs in the air before them. His gaze darts between the assembled phantoms and wraiths aboard the _Night Buzzard_ , face beginning to turn red.

In a loud, resonating voice that Hux has never heard her use before, she commands, “Kneel before your Emperor!” It’s a sound he can feel in his marrow. With that, she drops him to the floor in the open doorway of the ship.

He falls hard to his knees, heaving desperate, shuddering breaths. “Please,” he begs, shuffling forward, reaching up for her, “Please!”

“I said,” she impresses, “ _Kneel_!” Pressing her hand down through the air, she folds him in half at Hux’s feet.

He’s still begging, still whimpering and crying.

“Apologize for that,” she commands.

“I’m sorry!” he nearly shouts, head still bowed, “I’m sorry, I don’t know why—”

_“Look at him!”_

A ripple of fear moves visibly through the crowd below, the entire city seeming to cringe away from the sound of her voice.

The Rebel boy looks up at Hux, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he whimpers, “I’m—”

At once, Annihila’s hand is wrapped around his throat, choking off the end of his sentence. She sinks to one knee, places her free hand on his chest, curves her fingertips in, and begins to press.

The Emperor can’t believe what he’s seeing. Not when her black lacquered nails pierce into his skin, and the blood begins spurting from the wound. Not when the boy’s eyes fly wide with horror, and he coughs, peppering her pale face with red. His voice rises to a strangled cry as she claws and digs, and then she wrenches her hand back, and he falls silent.

In her palm, she holds his still-beating heart.

Screams of reeling horror and disgust rise in hellish chorus from the battlefield. Someone vomits. A handful of people turn and flee.

The rebel boy looks down at the hole in his chest, shaking hands hovering above the wound in numb disbelief. He blinks up at the Empress for a few seconds, watching as she rises to her feet. And then, with a dismissive kick, she sends him falling from the ship. Her clones begin firing again the instant he hits the ground, and the battle resumes with renewed fervor. A few beams hit the side of the Buzzard, whizzing through the ship past their heads, but it’s a smaller volley than she’d expected.

Cardo, Vicrul, and Trudgen fold in around their Lord, and begin laying down suppressing fire.

Hux stammers, gaze darting between the face of his Empress and the heart in her hand. “Ani—”

“Beautiful work!” Trudgen shouts over the deafening noise, “Honestly, what a flex.”

“Yeah, that wound them up nicely,” Vicrul praises, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

“Here,” she says casually, taking Hux by the wrist. Before he can protest, she’s dropped the mass of blood and gristle into his upturned palm with a sickening, wet slap. “Heart of my heart.”

His mouth opens and closes in dumb silence. Every atom in his body is reeling from this experience, recoiling in abject horror. It’s still _warm_ , even through the fabric of his glove, and he swears he can still feel it _moving_ —

She casts him a wry smile, before turning to shout towards the cockpit. “Take your Emperor to the _Maul_ , and then get back down here! We still have work to do!”

“Copy that!” Kuruk replies, stirring the idling engines, “See in you in 15!”

“You three,” she commands, gesturing between her Knights, “With me!”

“No, wait—” Hux tries to grab for her, but it’s too late. She’s leapt from the ship, landing gracefully beside the body of the rebel boy. Ushar, Cardo, and Trudgen follow dutifully in her wake, moving on the battle like tanks. Annihila draws her sabers, tosses her hair back from her face. And with a kind of easy confidence, she strides towards the crowd.

“ _She’s on the ground_!” someone screams.

“OPEN FIRE!”

She moves effortlessly through the barrage of blaster fire, ducking and spinning like a dancer, each beam seeming to be drawn magnetically to her blades. Hux swears he can see her smiling. His Imperial guards take him by the shoulders, dragging him back from the door.

The last thing he sees before the _Buzzard_ pulls away is his Empress tossing her left saber into the air, tearing the weapons from the hands of five rebel fighters with a single, beckoning wave, and then catching the saber again as it falls. A split-second later, she rends their heads from their shoulders with a single, fluid slash.

* * *

Twelve hours later, the _Night Buzzard_ is once again spacebound. The battle-stained Knights are scattered about the ship in various states of exhaustion, removing helmets and armor to laugh and breathe together for a few minutes. The Empress leans against the viewport, watching the planet shrink beneath them. She laughs along with her brothers, like she had when her name was Ap’lek. When it was Nul.

It was a good day, she thinks. A good battle. The worst Corellia had to throw at them has passed. They have the Temple, they have the shipyard, and they have the trade offices. The trade _officers_. Clones and Stormtroopers will be able to manage civil disobedience from here, and quench whatever sparks of rebellion remain.

“I still can’t believe she did that,” Vicrul chuckles, floating his helmet across the ship towards Ushar.

“Just put it right in his hand, too,” Ushar laughs, sending it hurtling back at him like they’re playing catch. “ _Slap_!”

“ _Devsta’rak’i_ ,” Cardo praises, thumping his fist against the hull. The rest of the Knights chorus in agreement, stomping their feet, screeching and howling like the feral beasts they are.

_“DEVSTA’RAK’I!!”_

She gives them a polite, Imperial bow. “You know that I live to impress you.”

Kuruk can’t help but gloat. “I told you it was a bad idea, bringing him down here, ‘Lek.”

“Well…” she smiles, “You know how foolish Human men can be, my darlings. _Convinced_ they’re doing the wise thing, up until the moment it kills them.” She pauses for effect. “Talking back to their Empress, for example.”

Everyone but the pilot explodes with taunts and laughter.

“Hey, Kuruk, I think she just threatened to kill you, man!”

“Just wait ‘till he’s not flying the ship, alright?”

“After that, we don’t care what you do to him, as long as we can watch.”

“ _Pilot’s_ not a real job, anyway,” Vicrul mocks, arrogating control of the floating helmet and knocking it against Kuruk’s head a few times for emphasis.

He swats it away, frustrated. “I’ll crash this bird!” he warns, “Don’t think I won’t!”

Vicrul doesn’t relent. “I’ve always wondered what your heart looks like.”

“Mum _,_ he’s _touching_ me.”

“I’ll _come over there_ and touch you!”

“Alright, alright,” she finally interrupts, pulling the helmet over into her grasp. “Secure that. But Kuruk, my darling?”

He looks over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Don’t call me ‘ _Lek_.”

He goes red. “Yes, My Liege Lady.”

“Oh!” She moans comically, head falling back against the hull. “Say it again, but _slower_!”

The screeching and shouting resume.

_“I’m telling Armie!”_

These are the moments she lives for; the moments in which she is not an Empress, or a Lord, but a warrior among warriors, celebrating a glorious victory. These men have been her brothers for decades. They followed her across the Galaxy to join in her war, and here they remain: forever loyal. Her blood stains their armor, as theirs does hers. She relishes these moments of easy companionship, of loud, jovial comfort. And, for a split second, she thinks of Kylo.

Annihila slips a hand beneath her collar, snagging the chain around her neck and pulling it free. Impulsively, she brings the crystal to her lips. Oddly enough, her heart aches. He’s the only thing missing from this beautiful moment, and she feels his absence as though it were a tangible thing. Not the man he was when she killed him, but the boy he’d been when she’d loved him.

“In this moment,” she whispers, “I do miss you.”

* * *

She can sense the tangle of the Emperor’s thoughts the instant they touch down in the hanger. It distracts her as they disembark, and her Knights kneel respectfully before her. There’s something in him that she can’t name, something she’s never seen before. Bloody and exhausted, she makes her way for the Imperial residence above the bridge.

Two of his guards are standing outside, which strikes her as odd. Perturbed, she dismisses them before she enters.

The trail of blood begins at the door. Dried, now, faded to red-brown. Her eyes follow the droplets across the floor, past the hastily discarded pieces of his regal combat uniform that lay in crumpled heaps throughout the room. Again, odd behavior for him. And there he is, seating on the floor before the wide viewport, looking down at Corellia. He’s wrapped in his silver-white Nexu pelt, which she didn’t even know he’d brought with him. The meaning behind the gesture, and the lost truth it represents, tear at her heart.

She knows he knows she’s there. He’s waiting for her to join him. She won’t make him wait any longer.

She follows suit, stripping her bloodied clothing away and leaving it to lie beside his. He won’t want his pelt stained with gore, of that she’s certain. She’s standing over him before she sees it: the heart she’d torn from the chest of that murderous, rebel scum is lying on the floor in front of him, in a small pool of blood.

Naked, Annihila sinks to the floor beside him, and he offers her a corner of the pelt. She throws it over her shoulders, settling in beside him. He’s naked, too, his hair a bright and disheveled mess. It’s streaked with blood, like he’d run his fingers through it without thinking. He has a hand wrapped around his right wrist, clutching covetously at the double-set of thin, black rings tattooed around it. Identical to the ones that adorn her right wrist.

“You ordered me back to the ship,” he says softly, eyes fixed on the planet.

“No,” she swiftly negates, “I ordered Kuruk to protect the life of his Emperor.”

He shifts uncomfortably for a moment. “How did it go?”

“ _Zhol kash dinora_ ,” she says, tongue playing along the jagged edges of the Sith words, “Corellia is yours once more.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

They’re quiet for a long time, close but not quite touching beneath the pelt.

“Do you find me monstrous, now?” she whispers, “You must.”

Finally, he looks at her. His eyes are wide and imploring as he breathes, “You _killed_ for me.”

“Millions have killed for you.”

“Not like that,” he argues, shifting around to face her, “Never so… Ani, you pulled a man’s heart from his chest, you… You _put it into my hand_.”

“I’m sorry.”

“ _No_!” he blurts, “Don’t you _dare_ —"

“I won’t do it again.”

“ _Annihila_.” He shakes his head, exhaling a shuddering breath. “I’ve never been more in love with you in all my life.”

The relief she feels is entirely absolving. Alarmingly so. She stammers for a moment, before settling on, “He tried to rob me of my mate.”

He reaches over to clasp her right hand in his, weaving their fingers together, lining their forearms up. He presses his nose to her skin of her wrist, breathing in the scent of her, running his lips along the black rings. With their hands clasped like this, they form a series of unbroken circles, binding them together.

 _Mine_ , he thinks, his mind a haze of delirious, covetous obsession. _Mine, mine_ …

It makes her smile.

“I would set entire worlds ablaze at your feet,” she murmurs, watching him, “Just to see the flames dance in your eyes.”

“You have,” he reminds her.

“Yes,” she says, “And I’ll do it again, and again, and again, until there are no more planets left in the sk—”

Before she knows what’s happening, he’s kissing her, knocking her back onto the floor. Her fingers comb up through his hair, keeping him close.

_My Starkiller._

He breaks the kiss quite abruptly, looking down at her in unguarded desperation. “Don’t send me back to Coruscant,” he begs, “Please. Let me stay here, with you.”

“I would not send you away,” she reassures him, “You’re precisely where I want you.”

“Sleep with me,” he commands, nosing her chin back to lay his lips against her throat.

“Let me get the Rebel blood off me, first.”

* * *

She steps beneath the stream of water, tilting her head back to let it pour over her. Her hair saturates, hanging heavily down her back. She braces her hands on the wall, shoulders slumped forward. Every muscle in her body is sore and aching. The pain is more severe than normal, which surprises her, after such a relatively simple campaign.

 _It’s the Force_ , she realizes, _the consequence of how I chose to wield it, today._

She can sense him behind her, sense him approaching. The thrilling, familiar heat of him. It feels like a small eternity before his thumbs press into the small of her back, fingers curling around her hipbones. She moans softly, craning into his touch.

The jars and bottles on the shelves begin to rattle, and the temperature of the water rises noticeably.

“Settle down,” he softly chides, dragging her hair out of the way to press his lips to the back of her neck. Thankfully, she does seem to pull back. He remembers all too well the destruction she can inadvertently cause, at times like this.

“I’ll settle down after you fuck me,” she breathes.

He puts a hand on her throat, tilting her head back. “That’s no way to speak to your Emperor.”

He’s hit with a sudden, sharp reel of images, like a seizure, a lightning storm: her view of him on his knees, his arms tied behind the small of his back, his thighs raked with the pink striping of lashes. Annihila, dressed for battle, standing over his kneeling, naked body, with her foot pressed between his legs. And then, sharply, she seems to recover. Muscles tense and quivering, she presses back into him, dragging the slick crease of her ass along his length.

“I thought you wanted to keep me safe?” he pants.

The sound she makes lies somewhere between a laugh and a snarl, as she challenges, “That wouldn’t make you feel safe?”

He can’t help the ragged moan that tears from his throat, or the way his eyes flutter. God damn her, she’s right.

* * *

“So,” Annihila says, crawling up to nestle into the crook of Hux’s shoulder, “Has my Liege Lord had his fill of battle, for the time being?”

“I’ve decided I’ll leave those affairs to you,” he diplomatically concedes, brushing her hair from his face, “You’re clearly better suited for it. Besides, I rather think your Knights have lost all semblance of respect for me, after that… _Display_.”

She can only force a half-smile, gently taking his hand to press her lips to his fingertips.

He breathes a sardonic laugh. “Oh, and she can’t even bring herself to deny it.”

“You were a warrior, too, once,” she reminds him, turning his wrist over and laying her palm against the back of his hand. “I shouldn’t have mocked you for saying it.” The Emperor’s gilded cigarette case floats up from nightstand to hover before their paired hands.

Hux smiles appreciatively, guiding her hand back and forth, up and down. He loves it when she does this. “Thank you.”

“I think I’d have enjoyed knowing Cadet Hux,” she admits strangely, drawing the case in close, bouncing it lightly off his fingertips.

The Emperor scoffs. “You most certainly would not have. Oh, he was a grasping little slut. Thin as a slip of paper, and just as useless, that’s what Brendol always said. Too weak to fight his way to the top, so he schemed and fucked and backstabbed his way there, instead.”

Annihila smiles. “I don’t know what part of that description makes you think I wouldn’t have liked him.”

Hux rolls his eyes. “Annihila, _really_.”

“You have never been weak, my Starkiller,” she reassures, drawing the floating cigarette case in close before repelling it away again, over and over. “You were not then, and you are not now.”

Hux shifts uncomfortably, setting his jaw. “Cadet Hux was strong enough to aim a sniper rifle, and that was enough. And _angry_. Frustrated all the time, lonely. But smart. Smart enough to keep quiet about it, until it served him. Not like Ky—” He catches himself. “Not… Well.”

The Emperor’s gaze drifts away, across the room. Out of the vast viewport, towards Corellia. Or further, off to where the sun had set behind the planet, or maybe even past that. Back to Arkanis, back in his life, to a time when he’d been a such a frightened, deadly thing, clawing for his place in this Galaxy.

“Don’t despair,” Annihila says, turning his wrist over again to float the cigarette case above his palm. “For all of my flame and fury, I’ll only be useful in the forging of this Empire. The burden of its preservation shall be yours, and yours alone. To rule is a job for the cunning, not the strong.”

His lips lift into a half smile. “You’re as useless a politician as I am a soldier.” After today, he’s eager to pick away at this topic.

She bristles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, no?” he challenges, “Please, darling, share with me _your_ recollection of the last time you joined me on the Senate floor.”

The floating cigarette case flies into her open hand, and Annihila crosses her arms in defiance. It’s a long moment before she responds. “I was wearing that stunning gown with the harness across the chest, and the gold headpiece that has the—”

“Yes, and stunning as it was,” he interrupts, “And I do not deny that it was, that is _not_ what I find most memorable about that day.”

Damn. She was sure that would’ve distracted him. After another beat of silence, she says, “I killed Chancellor—”

“You killed Chancellor Devyyn,” he finishes for her, more than a hint of condescension in his voice. “Precisely.”

“He made a remark.”

“ _Made a_ — You began shouting at him in High Sith, and then dropped him off the edge of his delegate platform.”

She can’t help but smile at the memory. “He was dead before I dropped him.”

“It’s not funny,” he snaps, “You started a _war_ , Annihila.”

“And I finished it!” she defends, “Kuat was due for a change in management, anyway. His insolence was indicative of a burgeoning revolt.”

“You’re a hand grenade in an operating theater,” he says, “An aerial bombardment where a single sniper will do.”

Though she knows it wasn’t his intent, she can’t help but relish the comparison.

“This is to say nothing of why you’re no longer welcome to attend Council meetings.”

“No, now _that’s_ not fair,” she argues, “I can’t help it if none of your groveling, spineless lackeys—”

“—feel safe with you in the room? And I do so wonder what you did to deserve _that_.”

“Killed Vice Admiral Arnold,” she mumbles into his chest.

That gives him pause. He cranes his neck to look at her. “You what?”

“I killed Vice Admiral Arnold,” she repeats, a little louder.

He furrows his brow. “No, you didn’t, that was an—”

“Unfortunate accident, I know. That palace of yours has so very _many_ balconies.”

“Ani,” he groans, falling back to the bed. “ _Why_?”

It’s a long moment before she whispers, “She wouldn’t stop thinking about your hair.”

The Emperor cocks an eyebrow. “What?”

Her arms tighten possessively. “She’d never seen a man with red hair before.”

“And you somehow thought that justified— Oh. _Oh_.” It suddenly dawns on him. He cranes his neck to look at her. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he sighs, laying back down, “We are a rare breed. Just me and that little… _Technician_ , that _boy_ you’re so inexplicably fond of.”

“Armitage…”

“ _Ani_ ,” he almost mocks.

After a long pause, she admits, “I have her dog tags, back on Exegol. If you want them.”

“Not her heart?” he prods.

She settles deeper into him, taking him by the wrist and wrapping his arm across her back. “Didn’t seem appropriate, given the circumstances.”

He exhales a laugh, letting his head fall back to the pillow. “And _this_ is why I’m in charge of political matters.”

She traces her fingertips across his chest. “That’s good,” she appraises, “Diplomacy has long been considered an occupation befitting of the Royal Consort.”

He makes a sound like she’s punched him in the stomach. “Royal Cons— _You’re_ the kriffing Royal Consort.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, alright, Armitage. Whatever you say. If today proved anything, it’s that _I’m_ the Consort.”

“Good,” he appraises, self-satisfied. And then, entirely impulsively, he blurts, “I want an heir.”

Despite her exhaustion, Annihila can’t help but laugh. What an unusually graceless segue. She can’t imagine how long he’s been holding onto this idea.

Hux bristles, indignant. “I’m not joking. If one of us were to be killed—”

“I’ll grow you a clone,” she interrupts.

“No,” he argues, “It’s not the same.” He wants to put an heir _in_ her. He wants her to carry his child.

“You’ll do no such thing, Armitage,” she responds aloud, “I’ll carve it out of my stomach with my own hands.”

“Why would you say that?” he demands, offense building. “Annihila, that’s monstrous.”

“What, _precisely_ , do you think I am?” she snaps.

He can feel the heat rise to his face as he replies, “My wife.”

She dismisses him with a scoff and a wave of her hand. “If this is what you wanted from a wife, then you chose the wrong woman. I am no _mother_.” She sneers at the word, sinking her pointed teeth into it as though to draw blood from the very concept itself.

“You’re the mother to the entire Galaxy,” he points out.

She winces like he’s slapped her. “I am no such thing.”

“Why not?” he snaps, hurt and indignant. “We brought life to this Empire together, you and I. Are we not—”

“I brought them _death_ ,” she corrects, baffled by his flawed interpretation. She rises to her knees, looking down at him in shock. “I rained fire and darkness down onto their worlds until they begged for my mercy. And you will _never_ say these things to me again.”

“Annihila—”

“There will be no heirs to our Empire,” she states definitively, “The age of family dynasties and sacred bloodlines died with the last of the Skywalkers. The Solos and Palpatines. And it died _purposefully_ , by our hand. Because you know, as well as I do, that power belongs to the conquerors. It cannot be given in that way. It can only be claimed, as you and I claimed it.”

“And when we die?” he challenges, “What then?”

A cruel smile begins to work its way across her lips, and she crawls up to sit astride his hips. “Let them scramble,” she says, taking him by the wrists to pin his hands above his head. “Let them claw each other apart in their madness and fear, fighting to fill the void of our power. I would have our legacy preserved by one thousand years of chaos, as this Galaxy tries to limp along without us. And, if and when someone rises to restore order, they will have earned it themselves. Just as we did.”

He cannot deny the rush of excitement the thought brings. His lip curls into a ravenous smile, and he has the look of a man who has bitten into an unfamiliar fruit to find a sweeter taste than expected. This is vintage Annihila. This is Ap’lek Ren. The beautiful warrior whose love he’d earned by erasing five planets from the sky. _Devsta’rak’i._

“That’s quite cruel, Ani,” he remarks, darkly playful.

She exhales a hollow, monosyllabic laugh. “ _That’s_ your wife.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone please tell her that Darth Vader would be proud. She's going to explode if no one tells her that Darth Vader would be proud.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things aren't great, behind the Imperial picket fence

3 Years Later

It’s the sound of high-caliber slug fire that draws her attention. Even from her residence at the top of the pyramid, she can hear it. At first, she’d though it was the lightening. But it’s coming from below. It couldn’t be a firefight- the shots are too few and far between. But it couldn’t be training, either. Clone weapons don’t sound like that. A glance down over the balcony only serves to baffle her further: there seems to be a small gathering of people down on the ground, and by the swath of crimson amidst all of the black, Hux is among them. The slug fire continues.

Her curiosity gets the better of her, so she dons one of her flowing, black gowns, and makes her way down. When she steps out onto the windswept plain, she sees that her red-draped Emperor is laying atop a blanket on the ground, wielding Kuruk’s sniper rifle. Kuruk lays beside him, stripped of his helmet, looking through a scope. Cardo, Vicrul, and Ushar are all standing over them, seemingly enthralled by the proceedings.

She announces her presence as she approaches. “Are you playing nicely?”

Vicrul laughs. “Never.”

She looks down at Hux, an amused smile on her face. “I can’t remember the last time I saw His Highness shoot targets.”

He grumbles, peering down the scope. “I’d like to state, for the record, that I have been thoroughly _goaded into this_.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Armitage, I’m certain you were.”

“Wind’s picked up, again,” Kuruk heeds, laser-focused on his task.

“I know that,” Hux replies, a hint of indignation to be heard in his tone.

“20 knots.”

He adds a few more clicks to his wind adjustment, before settling magnetically into his stockweld.

“Here, look—” Cardo hands his Empress a scope, and she points it downrange.

Her eyebrows rise in shock at the very distant target, punctured with a beautiful cluster of slug holes. “That has to be—”

“2500 meters,” he relays, no lack of reverence in his voice, “We’re not fuckin’ around, out here.”

The corner of her mouth lifts into a half-smile. “Cardo, my dear, you’re making your Emperor shoot slugs at an inanimate object for your entertainment when, as I recall, you’re all meant to be aboard the _Supremacy_. This may not be my first language, but I do believe that is the very _definition_ of ‘fucking around.’”

The Knights laugh appreciatively.

From the ground, Kuruk starts the low, level chant, “Fire. Fire. _Fire_.”

The shot rings out across the windswept plain, and a few second later, she watches through her scope as a new slug hole appears, right in the middle of all the rest.

“Kill!” Kuruk announces.

The Knights cheer.

“Your man’s a dead-shot,” Kuruk praises, looking up at his Empress, “I can’t think of a sniper in this Galaxy who could do better.”

Hux grins proudly as he reloads the rifle. High praise, from the Mandalorian. It is not lost on him. “Arkanis Academy, gentlemen,” he says, “Class of 21.”

Annihila rolls her eyes, exhaling a quiet laugh. Despite herself, she is relieved to see that her Knights have found something to be impressed by, in him. Especially after the mess on Corellia. She never thought they’d be able to look past it. Long has she hoped that they would come to see him through her eyes, and vice versa. Finally, it looks as though they’re settling into one another.

It only took a decade.

“One more,” Hux announces definitively, sinking back into position.

“My Emperor has a Senate hearing to attend,” she pointedly reminds him, “On a _very_ distant planet.”

“Three minutes won’t make a difference,” he dismisses, lining up his shot again. “Be quiet, now, darling.”

“Yeah,” Vicrul punches her lightly on the arm, “Get out of here, mum.”

Hurt and indignation flare up in Annihila’s chest.

“Down to 15 knots, now,” Kuruk relays, and the Emperor adjusts the weapon.

Annihila surveys the dark, electric landscape. “What happens if your slug gets struck by lightning?”

Hux scoffs. “It won’t. Now _please_ , darling.”

“Fire. Fire. _Fire_.”

He pulls the trigger. Eyes upturned, the Empress raises a hand and clenches it into a tight fist. In the same moment, a bolt of lightning crackles across the sky, followed by a very loud, very bright midair explosion, halfway between Hux and the target.

“Oh,” Kuruk stammers, lowering his scope and looking up at his Empress.

The rest of the Knights laugh and cheer appreciatively.

“How very amusing,” Hux snarls, making a big production of reloading the rifle in a huff.

She smiles. “Yes, I certainly thought it was.”

Hux studies her critically for a moment, before beckoning briskly. “Get down here, then, we’ll see if you can do better.”

She rolls her eyes, but acquiesces nonetheless, much to the delight of her Knights. Kuruk stands, and Hux takes his place at the scope. She settles into the position, bracing the rifle against her shoulder.

“2500-meter shot, no obstruction,” he dictates, “15-knot eastward crosswind. Zero your target.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she teases, looking him up and down, “Not while you’re lying there in that uniform.”

“Ani,” he scolds, turning away.

She takes it like a slap in the face. Fuming, she peers down the scope, centering the reticle on his cluster of slug holes.

“Not like that,” he admonishes, observing her technique, “Dope the wind. Make the rifle do the work for you.”

“I’m just going to hold,” she dismisses.

“ _Hold_.” He rolls his eyes, returning to his scope. “For a 2500-meter shot. Yes, alright. Good luck.”

She settles her cheek against the stock of the rifle, feeling the lingering warmth he’d left there.

“Feel the parallax,” he whispers, “Don’t try to fight it, or it’ll make you too tense. Sink into it. Work with it.”

She inhales deeply, holds for a moment, and then exhales. Again. And again. Getting a sense for the rhythmic rise and fall of the crosshairs. After a few breaths, she can even distinguish the minute jumps that occur with each beat of her heart. Speeding up as she inhales, and slowing again as she exhales. All around her, wisps of sand are beginning to slowly rise into tiny, perfect spirals.

“Good,” he murmurs, eyeing her appreciatively, “Good.”

She closes her eyes, lets her unconscious mind take over. Miniscule movements, hair-width adjustments. After a moment, she settles her finger onto the trigger, and opens her eyes.

Hux looks back down through the scope, and gives the command, “Fire. Fire. _Fire_.”

She exhales and, in the space between heartbeats, squeezes the trigger. The sound is deafening, the stock kicking back hard into her shoulder. She watches the bullet trace ripple through the stirred-up dust and she holds, lungs empty. And then, two and a half kilometers away, the slug pops through the center of the clustered holes on the target.

After a tense and silent moment, Hux announces, “Kill.”

She releases the breath, and her Knights cheer.

Kuruk shakes her by the shoulders. “ _That’s_ our girl!”

“Damn right!”

“ _Devsta’rak’i_!”

But Hux frowns at her. “You cheated.”

“I did no such thing!” she defends, “Using the Force—”

“Is _cheating_!” he argues.

“Just because _you_ can’t do it, Armitage, doesn’t mean it’s cheating.”

Beneath the rim of the pyramid, one of her Acolytes stands in wait. The Emperor is running behind schedule, thus distracting the _Sith’ari_ , which means the new crop of clones won’t be inspected and approved on time, and they’ll have to push back the deployment by another day or more, depending. That, of course, will only displease the Emperor, despite the fact that it will be entirely his own fault. _Exhausting_ , he thinks.

At that moment, he senses a presence beside him. The man announces himself awkwardly. “Oh,” he mumbles, perhaps more loudly than he’d intended, “That’s— Oh. Okay. That’s where they are. Someone told me they’d be in the residence, but I guess… I guess they were probably just confused, or something, uh… I don’t know. There they are.”

The Acolyte looks to the man, studying him critically. He’s clad in a New Imperial uniform, but he’s wearing his bright-red hair in a ponytail. Human, clearly, but his eyes are cheaply-made synthetics. “I doubt they were confused,” he says, “More likely, trying to play a trick on you.”

His eyes whirr and click, refocusing on the Acolyte. “A— A trick?”

“A few of the _Rizûti_ like to send new staff up to the Imperial Residence in the hopes that they witness something… Shocking. And with the Emperor set to depart for four days…” He shrugs. “I’m surprised they’re down here. Then again, they have been at each other’s throats lately. This is the best I've seen them get along in a while, and they’re _still_ fighting. _Still._ ”

“W-wait, what does that mean? S-something shocking?”

The Acolyte exhales a knowing laugh. “Serve them long enough, and you’ll see them fuck.”

“Oh,” the man remarks, looking back across the plain towards the Emperor and Empress. He zooms in a little, and sees that yes, they are fighting. “Yeah, no, I’ve… I’ve seen _that_ , already. That’s… Yeah. They’ve always been like that.”

The Acolyte furrows his brow. “I’ve never seen you, before.” It sounds like an accusation.

He shies away a little, admitting almost guiltily, “Ah, I’ve— I’ve been with them since… Starkiller, I guess. Wow. Starkiller. I’m, uh, I’m a securities technician.”

“And what, precisely, are you doing on Exegol? I wasn’t notified of any security breach.”

His shoulders jerk upward with a quick shrug, his anxiety rising. “I don’t know. S-she asked me to come down from the _Supremacy_ , s-so I… I just did?”

The Acolyte frowns. “ _Ri_ _Sith’ari_ asked you to come down from the _Supremacy_? _Personally_?”

He shrugs again, shrinking away even further. Across the plain, the Empress is now kissing her husband off. “I don’t know. Yeah, I mean— We’re, like… F-friends, I guess. She likes me.”

“She _likes_ —” He shakes his head in disbelief. “ _Friends_? What in the name of the Left-Handed God are you _talking_ about, man?”

Hux and the Knights are leaving, heading off to the Night Buzzard. And so, as if on cue, Annihila tunes into the presence of her sweet boy. She turns, and smiles. He’s as beautiful as ever, with his long, graceful lines and bright, pale skin. It even looks as though he’s had a haircut, though it still hangs to his shoulders.

“ _Mohtiyi_ _woiunoks,”_ she greets.

The Acolyte is nearly beside himself, looking between the pair in open-mouthed shock. _Brave little one?_ My _brave little one?_

“H-hi.” He smiles, offering her a tentative wave as she glides over in her beautiful gown, with her gossamer, black cape billowing around her in the wind. As she draws nearer, he can see that she has that red color smeared beneath her eyes, and he always loves it when she does that, because that’s what _he_ looks like. And then he suddenly recalls all of the tradition and protocol he’d been briefed on, before being allowed down here, and hurriedly falls to one knee. But he lands strangely, nearly losing his balance as he sinks into the loose, black sand. “My Liege Lady.”

“What are you doing?” she asks, “No, you stop that at once. Don’t be ridiculous.” With gentle hands on his cheeks, she pulls him to his feet and into an embrace.

He succumbs to it gratefully, wrapping his arms around her. The gown, he quickly realizes, is backless; the cape slung between her shoulders in such a way that his hands rest against the warmth of her bare skin. He’s shaking. Maybe it’s the joy of seeing her again, or the fear of this new, unfamiliar place. He can’t be sure. There’s just so much happening, right now. So many people around who could be looking at him.

“I, um… I missed you,” he tentatively whispers, as though it were a thing to feel guilty for. “A lot.”

She leans back to smile at him, curling her fingers through his hair. “I missed you too, _woiunoks._ It has been far too long. _”_

Before he can prepare for it, she’s tilting his head down and laying kisses sweetly against his closed eyes, back and forth. A soft whimper rises from his throat, and he savors the gentle touch of her lips.

The Acolyte tries to interrupt, stammering a weak, “ _Ri Sith’ari_ —”

“That’ll be all, _ki Rizûti,”_ she dismisses shortly.

“But _Sith’ari_ , _ri_ _Tsaiwinokka Hoyakut_ —” (The Clones)

“Can wait,” she snaps, rounding on him. The air flexes and warps dangerously. “As will you. Who is the ruler, here? You, or I?”

He bows his head. “ _Ki drijuri, Sith’ari_. Of course.”

She leans in close, taking him by the back of the neck to whisper in his ear. “Don’t think for an instant that you can hide from me the manner in which you just spoke to my honored guest.”

He stammers. “ _Snichi, ri Sith’ari_ —”

“ _Nu tqi_ zudyti _j'us dzis anas_ ,” she snaps. (I should _kill_ you for that.)

Techie watches in awkward silence, hands tightening into anxious fists along the hem of his dark jacket. After some more back-and-forth whispering in High Sith, she finally dismisses the Acolyte, and turns back to her Tech.

“I’m sorry, _akisi_ ,” she says genuinely, “He’ll be punished for that.”

“Oh,” he murmurs, brow furrowing in shock and concern, “Y-you don’t have to do _that_ , or anything. Honestly, you can’t really blame most p-people for talking to me the w-way they do, like—”

She interrupts. “Yes, I can.”

“Oh,” he acquiesces, baffled by her appraisal of his worth, “Okay, then.”

“Come,” she coaxes, extending a hand to him. “Tell me, what do you think of my planet?”

He takes it, grateful to be touching her again, and allows her to lead him into the pyramid.

“Well, I like it,” he says genuinely, “It’s nice and dark, so— You know, it, doesn’t hurt my… My eyes so much.”

In a moment of sheer, uncharacteristic boldness, he links his arm through hers to walk side-by-side. Not only does she allow it, but she seems to relish it, laying a long-nailed hand where his bicep should be.

She beams, gently squeezing his arm. “I had so hoped that would be the case.”

“Where are we going?” he asks, looking around the cavernous interior of the fortress.

“The Imperial Residence. This pyramid acts as a conduit, connecting me to the Vergence underground. When I am in my place at the top, the circuit is complete, and my power flows through everyone and everything within the Citadel of Sith.”

He watches, stunned, as Acolytes and Sovereign Protectors alike fall to their knees while they pass by. Greeting her with her title. It’s exceedingly surreal, to be bowed to while walking arm in arm with the Empress. The tech isn’t sure if he likes it.

“But why, um— Why did you want me to come?” He flinches, fretting for a moment that he’s overstepped by asking.

“Armitage is going to Coruscant for a few days, to oversee Senate proceedings,” she explains, leading him towards the lift.

“Right,” he nods, “A- _Armitage_ is… Of course. Okay.”

“ _I’m_ no longer invited on these little jaunts of his, you see, as my behavior is apparently _unbefitting of a diplomat_. I’m quite the Galactic embarrassment, don’t you know?”

He smiles, allowing himself a small, tentative laugh. He finds it immensely reassuring when she looks at him and he can see that she’s smiling, too.

“It is a shame, because my conquest is finished,” she continues, “I have little to do, anymore, but quell the occasional uprising. Armitage doesn’t care, he’s perfectly content to leave me here to suffer in solitude. As though I’ll just… Cease to exist if he’s away for long enough. And it does get so very boring.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“So, I had hoped that you would keep me company, while he’s gone.”

The sound that he makes is somewhere between a squeak and a whimper. “Yes,” he quickly corrects, “Yeah, that would be— I mean, are you _sure_?”

“Of course, beloved,” she reassures, “Unless you’d rather not?”

“No!” he stammers, “No, of course not! I mean, no, of course I _would_ , I _do_ want to—To keep you company, ‘cause…” He screws up his face, as though the very concept of language is frustrating him. When he finally speaks again, his voice is as small and tentative as she’s ever heard it. “I’ve really missed you, Nih.”

“ _Mohtiyi woiunoks_ ,” she smiles, “I’ve missed you, too.”

When they reach the Imperial Residence, he noticeably relaxes. But this is always how he’s felt most comfortable: these times when he can pretend that the two of them are entirely alone in the Galaxy. He’s shocked when she shows him the wardrobe she’d had prepared for him, because she knows, all too well, how out-of-place he feels in his military uniform. She wants only for him to feel comfortable and safe. But it’s a collection of exquisite fabrics, stitched into structured, opulent designs. Like the things she wears. Like the things the Emperor does. She retreats respectfully to the balcony to smoke, while he makes his selection and changes. When she returns, she finds that he’s neglected the wardrobe entirely, and instead donned one of her own red and black silk dressing gowns. She knows that he knows it’s hers. She smiles, but does not remark on it. There’s nothing that needs to be said. Such is the nature of their relationship.

He removes his eyes, one by one, so she can tune them up like she used to before she was the _Sith’ari_. He still won’t let her replace them. As terrible as they are, he says, as ill-fitting and cumbersome, they’re a part of him. He wouldn’t know what to do without them.

She listens as he talks about his work, one hand cupped over each empty eye socket in turn. She listens like it’s _interesting_. Asking questions, and hanging on his every word. She smiles at him, and laughs at his jokes. And, slowly, his anxiety begins to abate.

Still, he hides around the corner while her Acolytes bring their dinner. It is a meal fit for an Empress; a veritable feast compared to what he’s used to eating aboard the ship. A feast by any measure. But she floats the plates and dishes onto the floor, and they dine cross-legged before the fire, elbow to elbow. Like she thinks they’re _equals_.

Nothing is demanded of him. Nothing is expected. For the first time in what feels like yaers, he simply… _Is_.

He’s missed this so much. In the time they’ve spent apart, he’s lingered endlessly on the memories of each and every moment they ever shared. All the times she came to his quarters on his off cycle, just to sit and be silent with him. To hold him in all the ways that make him feel safe, and touch his hair. All the Stormtroopers she slammed into walls and ceilings, in his defense. All the times she called him to her rooms, of an evening, where they would do exactly what they’d done today. Fix his eyes, and talk about his day.

He swears he can still feel his skin tingling in each place she’s ever touched. Sometimes, he thinks about her kissing every single scar on his stupid, broken body.

It’s not romantic, per se. But neither is it platonic. There’s companionship, and the gentle sharing of both minds and bodies. The love the Empress has for him is a thing both tender and sad; that much he knows to be true. And he, in turn, worships her for it. That she has never asked it of him is, perhaps, why it is so effortless. What is shared between them is a thing entirely unconditional because, she says, through their wounds, they are one.

She told him, once, that Hux makes her feel like an Empress, her _Rizûti_ make her feel like a god, and her Knights make her feel like a warrior. But he… _He_ , the quiet, nameless, damaged ex-slave who happened to be standing in the lift when she summoned it once, makes her feel like a person. Because her given name is just the Ul’Zabrak word for “girl child.” Because the only thing separating their stories is the cruel wheel of chance.

It made his heart swell, because she makes him feel like a person, too.

By the time night falls, the Technician has settled into the place entirely. He lays on the couch with his head in the Empress’ lap, drunk on the sensation of her fingers running absently through his hair while she studies her Sith text. The wide hearth crackles invitingly, casting a shaft of warmth across the room. She’d set the fire with her own hands. It had been a wondrous thing to behold.

They’ve been sitting like this for some time, now, and his eyes have begun to flutter and roll back at her touch. The occasional soft, pleasurable sound rises from his throat, despite himself. He feels like he could melt into her. He wishes he could.

She can sense it. She looks down at him and smiles. He looks beautiful, wrapped in her dressing gown. It’s an endlessly endearing sight.

He squirms a little, face reddening. “What?”

“Nothing, _ki aki_ ,” she reassures him, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, “I simply enjoy looking at you.”

No matter how many times she tells him, he doesn’t think he’ll ever believe it. He rolls onto his side, pressing his face into her lap. He takes a gentle handful of her skirt, rubbing the soft material between his fingers. He wishes he could be closer to her. Feel more of her.

After a beat, the Empress sets her book down. “Come here,” she whispers, gently coaxing him to sit up beside her.

His knees are pressed together tightly, hands balled into fists in his lap. But he’s leaning towards her. Imploring. His eyes whirr and click as they flit here and there across her face. She reaches out, places a hand on his cheek. His heart is pounding so hard, it feels as though his ribcage could split apart.

He can’t stand it for one more second. Where the boldness comes from, he has no idea. But, all at once, he’s closing his eyes, leaning in, and then his lips collide with hers. It’s a quick, chaste thing, and it’s over as soon as it begins.

“Sorry,” he gasps, eyes pressed shut as he jerks away. He shakes his head in frustration. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Niha, I sh-shouldn’t have done that. I know we—Well, we did it that one time before, back on the ship, in th-that lift, but that doesn’t make it okay right _now_. I’m sorry.” All at once, he’s wound tight, again. Hours of effort entirely undone.

Something brushes against his hand, and he realizes it’s her hand, but not before he jumps at her touch. He hates himself for it, hates himself for being so fucking broken that he can’t even have his hand held without panicking, but then she’s pressing her lips to his knuckles. Over and over, like it’s something she _likes_ doing.

“Oh…” He sinks into it, murmuring some soft, wordless encouragement to her. He watches, enraptured, as she gently turns his hand over to kiss his palm. His shaking fingers curve slightly, pressing against her cheek.

“You should do,” she whispers, “Whatever you feel like doing.”

“W-whatever I feel like…?” he repeats in a haze, as though he can’t decipher the code she’s using.

“Because you’re safe,” she says softly, lips still trailing along his skin, “And all I want now is for you to be happy.”

 _Happy_. What a baffling concept. Even still… He knows what he wants. His heart leaps into his throat as he glances to her lips, and the words spill out before he can stop them. “Can, um…” he winces preemptively, “Could I m-maybe kiss you again?”

She nods placidly, as though he hasn’t just taken the most terrifying leap of faith in his entire life. “I’d like that.”

It’s not the answer he’d expected. “O-oh…” he exhales, leaning in slightly, “Okay.” He scoots towards her, his breath a halting, over-analyzed mess. He can hear his eyes doing that quick expand-and-contract thing that always seems to happen at times like this, and so he closes them, and then he feels her lips on his again. Soft. Gentle. He moans shakily, squeezing her hand in his. After a moment, he feels her thumb on his chin.

“Open your mouth,” she coaxes, “Open.”

He acquiesces, and she slips her tongue between his lips. It’s warm and wet and so, so, soft, but only for a moment. Just one single, sweet, delicious moment, and then she withdraws, studying his face. He chases her mouth and licks at her timidly, so timidly, and then hungrily. She moans. The Empress, the ruler of the entire Galaxy, _moans_.

 _She likes it, she really likes it. She likes_ me.

His body seems to move of its own accord as he shifts to his knees, slipping one leg over her lap to straddle her thighs. Still kissing her, like he knows what he’s doing. Her hands slip around his back, keeping him close, but so gently. So carefully. She’s always handled him so carefully, like he’s something important.

And then she pulls away, and for a moment he’s terrified that he was doing it wrong, that maybe it didn’t feel as good for her as he thought, but then she resettles her lips on his throat. Kissing. Sucking lightly. His head falls back as he paws at her arms, feeling the strength in her. Trusting, as always, that she’ll never turn it against him.

She likes feeling the quick pulsing beneath his perfect, pale skin. She likes his breathless, whimpering little sounds so close to her ear, and the way his shaking fingers are pressing so fretfully into her shoulders. When he lets out a loud, broken moan, she looks up.

“Is this alright?” she asks in earnest.

“Yeah, it feels—It’s—” _Good_ doesn’t seem to cut it. He rests his feet atop her knees, toes curling. He can’t bring himself to look down at her as he whimpers, “P-please don’t stop.”

She smiles, slipping her hand up the back of his neck to draw him in close again. He meets her with so much guarded eagerness, tonguing hungrily at her mouth. He’s hard. Painfully, distractingly, _embarrassingly_ hard.

“Wait,” he suddenly stammers, “Wait, we shouldn’t be doing this, I don’t think.”

“Why not?”

“Well… I mean, the Emperor.”

He can feel her bristle, a hit of a sneer against his skin. “What I do when he leaves me here to rot takes nothing from him.”

He swallows hard. Every bone in his body is aching for her, demanding that he give into this. He asks, “A-are you sure?” and he knows he isn’t just asking about Hux. He’s asking if she’s sure that, out of all the countless beings scattered across the Galaxy, she wants _him_. Sad, small, and broken.

She slips her hands along his sides, squeezing gently at his ribs. “Yes, _ki aki_ ,” she whispers, “I’m sure.”

“Can… Could we maybe lie down? Together?”

Even though it’s his idea, he panics at the sight of the massive bed, and instead opts to sit cross-legged on the edge. She doesn’t join him right away, and it takes him a moment to realize what’s happening as she reaches up to unhook the cape from her shoulders.

“You don’t have to do that,” he blurts, cursing himself for it.

She pauses. “Don’t you want me to?”

He swallows hard. “I do. Um… Want you to."

And then her gown is falling away, pooling around her feet, and he could swear her skin is glowing in the low light. Ghostly pale, and etched with so many scars. Blaster wounds, saber burns, and so many other marks he can’t identify.

Pale and scarred, and partly synthetic. Like him.

She sits down beside him, and his heart picks up a beat. This is not the first time he’s seen her stripped bare, like this. He wasn’t lying to the Acolyte when he said he’d witnessed her and the Emperor in the throes of passion. He’d made the mistake, once, of walking into the Emperor’s ready room aboard the _Supremacy_ without ringing. He was supposed to be fixing a glitchy console, and they’d even sent him over in the middle of the night so as not to interrupt the Emperor’s work, but that turned out to be a bad idea. The memory of it worries him a little: the way the Emperor had had her up on the conference table with his hand wrapped around her throat. The way they’d clawed at each other, her hand fisted in his ( _fiery red_ ) hair. He had sunk his teeth into her breast so hard she’d screamed and slapped him in the face. And when the Emperor had stumbled back from her, clutching at his cheek, he finally caught sight of the Technician standing in the doorway. He had fled before a confrontation could ensue.

He hopes she doesn’t want him to do those kinds of things to her, or even worse, try to do them to him. Biting and hitting and choking. Even thinking about it is frightening. Nevertheless, he suddenly feels so clothed, so _covered_ , but he doesn’t know if he’s ready for her to see him, yet.

He’s trying to ignore the warmth rising from her skin, and the fact that he could touch her right now, maybe lay his hand against her breast or even take it in his mouth, but it’s so hard to ignore. “You— There’s so many,” he murmurs, reaching out to ghost a finger down a particularly gnarled line across her upper arm.

She nods, following his gaze across her body. “That one… A building fell on me, during my second campaign on Kuat. Most of my ribs, and all of the bones in my arms are Cortosis, now.”

“I remember when that happened,” he whispers reverently, “I really wanted to go see you, since you were on the _Supremacy_ , b-but everyone said that the Emperor— Well, I guess he was hanging around the Medbay all the time, and I didn’t— I didn’t wanna run into him or, like, make him angry.”

“I would’ve loved to see you, _ki aki_ ,” she croons, combing the hair back from his face, “I hope you know that.”

His chin starts to quiver at the memory, at the thought that every scar on her body has come from something else just as horrible, and god, now he can feel his eyes clicking as they fight against inoperative tear ducts. He doesn’t understand how someone with so many scars could possibly enjoy blurring the line between pain and pleasure, like she does. Mixing love with violence. It’s not something he can wrap his head around.

He swallows hard, pointing to the strange double-line of puncture wounds that line her abdomen. “What—How did these happen?”

She smiles, exhaling a monosyllabic laugh. “Those are my own doing, sweet boy.”

He blinks up at her, brow knitting in concern.

“I hang,” she explains, reclining on her back with her head on the pillow, “A hundred feet in the air, from hooks through my flesh and muscle.”

“What?” he asks, his voice edged with panic and concern, “Why?”

“For focus. Meditation. It’s actually quite peaceful, you feel like you’re floating. You may like it.”

He cringes away, arms wrapping instinctively across his own waist. “Please don’t make me do it.”

The response baffles her, but she calmly reassures, “You know I would never make you do anything, beloved.”

After a beat, he lays down beside her, curling up on his side. “Okay,” he murmurs, eyes downcast, “I know.”

Her gaze travels across his face, and she ever so gently peers into his mind. He’s a conflict of emotion, now: innocent excitement, obsession. True devotion. But it’s marred by the ever-present undercurrent of his anxiety. The gnawing worry that this is all a trap, that maybe he’s not actually as safe or loved as he wants to believe he is.

“You are so loved,” she whispers, craning to meet his gaze, “I would tear out my eyes for you—”

“Stop!” he interrupts, hand flying up to tentatively cover her mouth. “Don’t say things like that! W-why would you say that?”

She gently lifts his hand away. “Because it’s true. I’d tear out my soul, if I could, to feel everything as you do.”

“No,” he protests in a small voice, clutching desperately at her hands, “Why are you hurting me? That’s such a— A scary thing to say, Niha, please don’t talk like that!”

“I mean it,” she says, looking straight into his wide, blue eyes, “I’d lick the scars from your skin and swallow them—”

His lips have collided with hers before she can even finish, and she knows he just wants the words to stop, but after a moment, he’s moaning so hungrily into her mouth. He’s shaking, fingertips fretting at her hands, her shoulders, like he doesn’t know what to do or how to touch her.

_So loved._

She can hear him replaying her words in his head, over and over.

_Lick the scars from your skin._

“Come back up here,” she pants, rolling onto her back and tugging him over to straddle her hips. She’d sensed, on the couch, that he really likes sitting like this. It makes him feel safe and in-control.

He’s hard again, and so afraid that it’s visible beneath the silk dressing gown, but he can’t bring himself to look. Not that it would really matter, because his bare skin is pressed against her bare skin, and her hipbones are jutting up into the backs of his thighs, and he can _feel_ her. She’s looking up at him with those shining, silver eyes, and she has a tattoo on her face like he does, and all he wants to do is kiss her again. The act of leaning forward and down to her lips makes his cock rub against her bare stomach. He makes some small sound of shock against her mouth, almost pulling away, but then her hands are on his hips, pulling him tighter against her, and all he can do is gasp into her neck.

She begins guiding his hips back and forth, dragging his length against her stomach. He whimpers, eyes pressed shut. He’s achingly hard, pulsing against the warmth of her skin each time the head of his cock drags back and forth. He’s leaving a trail of precome on her stomach, he can feel it, and he’s so humiliated by it, but she seems not to care.

“I want to see you,” she breathes, and it might be the closest thing the Empress has done to begging in years. One of her hands trails up his chest, fingertips slipping just inside the dressing gown. “Please, let me see you.”

“You don’t want to,” he pants, “Y-you’ll hate it.”

“What about just this, then?” she asks, settling the warmth of her palm against his hard length. She starts to rub her hand up and down, the silk of the dressing gown sliding back and forth and sending prickling embers of pleasure up through his stomach.

A shocked, ragged moan tears from his throat. “Yes,” he nods frantically, “Yes, okay. That’s— Okay.”

“Sit back,” she coaxes, sitting up slightly against the stone headboard and settling him down atop her hips again. Her fingers slip beneath the silk, lingering for a moment on the warm skin of his thigh, and then she’s brushing the folds of the robe aside and he’s exposed. He can feel her eyes on him. Feel his cock pulsing with every beat of his heart, craning up for her touch.

Beautiful, she thinks. Delicate and pretty and earnest, just like the rest of him. Soft, even when it’s so, so hard. And blessedly unmarked, unlike the skin of his lower belly that’s just visible between the parted silk of his robe.

He whimpers, brings his hands to his face, but she takes them away again. Presses kisses to his knuckles.

“Should I stop, _ki aki_?”

“No,” he nearly begs, “Please don’t stop.”

She runs a fingertip gently along the underside of his length. He shivers and sucks in a small breath, but he cranes into it, pushing his hips forward.

“P-please, Nih, you feel so good, just so good.”

She takes him in her hand, squeezing gently, and for a moment, she genuinely believes that he’s about to come. But he doesn’t, he just freezes, gasping.

“Kiss me,” she commands, and he does, leaning down to press his lips so hungrily to hers, just as she begins to work her hand up and down along his length. It’s an awkward position for her, a difficult angle, but he feels so safe up there.

Each stroke brings a soft, desperate sound edging from his throat. One of his hands hangs from the edge of the headboard with a white-knuckle grip, and he begins to rock his hips back and forth. Tentatively, at first, and then with much more urgency. Shimmering strands of precome are dripping down between her fingers, and she can’t fight the urge any longer.

“Come here,” she coaxes, taking him by the flank and drawing him up to kneel above her. He clutches at the headboard for balance and watches, stunned and enamored, as his cock disappears into the soft, wet heat of her mouth. She drags her tongue along the underside of his length, hollows out her cheeks, and he’s ruined.

“Oh, fuck,” he pants, voice rising in pitch and volume, “Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuu_ —”

He’s coming before he can stop himself. Not that he really wanted to stop himself. Balls drawn up tight, pouring himself into her mouth with spurt after blinding spurt. He shaking, and his hips are snapping forward, pushing himself deeper, and he’s worried for a moment that he’s hurting her because she’s making a loud noise, but she’s swallowing, swallowing, taking everything he’s giving her, and he’s lost to the sheer, unprecedented pleasure of it.

There’s something different about it. It feels there’s an extra warmth spreading from behind his eyes, working all the way down to his fingertips. It feels like she’s wrapped around every single part of him, holding him. He can’t tell if it’s as simple as someone else touching him, for the first time that he’s ever wanted, or if it’s _her_.

She pulls him from her mouth with an obscene _pop_ , and he frantically gasps, “I’m sorry, Nih, I’m sorry—”

“Stop that.” She wraps a hand around his neck, and pulls him down again. He falls heavily to her lap, meeting her lips almost violently. He can taste himself on her, but he realizes he doesn’t mind. In this moment, she could do anything she wanted, to him, and he’d thank her for it. Beg for more.

“I should… I don’t know, I should do something for you,” he tentatively offers, at once realizing that he wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to make the Empress of the Galaxy feel as good as she just made him feel.

“You don’t need to,” she reassures him, combing his hair back from his face, “I felt that with you, the same as you did.”

He chuckles awkwardly. “P-post verbal communication,” he mumbles. An AI term that had cropped up at work, recently; the gentle way she reads his mind has had it running through his head all day. After a beat, he grimaces against how stupid it was to say.

But a quick, tentative glance shows him that she’s smiling, looking up into his eyes like she loves him. That he can hear his eyes trying to focus and adjust to how close they are makes his stomach turn.

“I never thought I’d feel anything nice,” he suddenly blurts. He’s so serious, almost stern, holding her gaze with more resolve than she’s ever seen from him. “But then you… I guess you, like, took pity on me—”

“Not pity,” she interrupts. “Never pity. We are but distorted reflections of one another. Strong, because we’ve been hurt in all of the same ways.” She reaches up, and with soft fingertips, traces along the pale blue brand on his forehead.

He can’t help but lean into it. “Yeah, but— What I’m trying to say is that you’re really good to me, like, _so good_ , way better than I deserve, and so—”

“Beloved—”

“No,” he stammers, “I just— I think I might actually, really—”

_Love you, Niha._

He groans like words have begun to annoy him, and kisses her as if to explain the rest, hoping that it speaks for itself. On her tongue, he tastes so many things he never thought he would have: a home that feels untouchably safe, a sense of belonging, and being able to come and go from it as he pleases, and the rare and precious knowing that he will always be welcomed warmly back.

The Empress of the Galaxy. Darth Annihila, the _Sith’ari_. A warrior of unparalleled cruelty. The very mention of her name strikes fear into the hearts of so many billions.

But not his heart. Because, with him, she’s just a person. A gentle, beautiful, caring, just-as-damaged-as-he-is _person_.

She can tell that he’s done for the night. It was such an overload of new experiences, for him, what she just did. That he’s still functioning, still talking and kissing her, is a relief. It means she did a good job holding back and keeping him safe from all the deadly parts of her. But the tiredness in his limbs and the heaviness of his eyelids are bleeding into her. So, she drags him down to the bed and gathers his almost deliriously boneless form in her arms. She wraps herself around him from behind and her knees slip up beneath his, cradling him against her chest. The sound he makes is relieved and cathartic, and he shifts around until they’re pressed together completely, inching back against her, curling his toes against the tops of her cybernetic feet. He quests blindly for her hand, bringing it to his lips and holding it there.

“I love you.” he whispers it like a secret against her palm, so softly it’s nearly inaudible.

“ _Ki aki_ ,” she breathes, “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sus of her, tbh


	4. Chapter 4

The following morning, the Technician awakens with a violent start, crying out in shock. For a moment, he can’t remember where he is, or how he ended up in such a big bed, in such a big room, and there’s _lightning_ crackling outside, and what am I even _wearing_?

Oh. Right, yes. Of course. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to still himself, but then he realizes that he has no idea where his Empress is.

“Niha?” he calls out, voice quavering in the air. And then again, louder, “ _Nih_?” No response. He pulls his knees up to his chest, scooting back against the cool, stone headboard. “Oh, no… Oh, no…”

 _She left because you were bad. You were Stupid and Bad and Annoying, and you’re lucky she didn’t hurt you and hurt you—_ No! _She loves you, she said it over and over, and then she held you in her arms all night. Oh, what if_ she _got hurt? What if someone came in and stole her, because she’s the Empress of the Entire Galaxy, and you were asleep, but what would you have even done about it, anyway? Weak, weak, soft and stupid and you_ lost _her._

He peers around the bed, unsure of what he’s looking for. Blood? Signs of foul play? There are none. It’s just a bed, all normal except for the fact that the sheets are a little wrinkled and off-kilter after…

The tips of his ears burn.

 _Get up,_ he tells himself, _just get up, she has to be around here somewhere. Go find her._

He closes his eyes, counts backwards from five. _You can be scared for five seconds, and that’s it_.

Five…

_Niha abandoned you…_

Four…

_Because she actually secretly hates you…_

Three _…_

_Because everyone hates you…_

Two _…_

_Because you’re Bad and Annoying…_

One.

His hands ball into tight fists in the silk of the dressing gown he’s still wearing, and it makes him feel a little stronger. Almost like she’s wrapped around him. And then, after a few more moments of panicked deliberation, he wills his legs to move, and scrambles to his feet.

“Niha?” he calls out again. Still, no response.

He looks into the washroom first, and finds it empty. The sitting room, too, and the Emperor’s study. Again, he feels his eyes sting and shake, and he wishes that he could cry, because then maybe he’d feel better. He rubs at his eyelids, streaking his knuckles with red-brown rust. He wanders stiffly back into the bedroom, and just as he begins to genuinely contemplate throwing himself off the balcony, he sees her. She’s perched on the balustrade outside, legs crossed beneath her, hair whipping around wildly in the wind.

A relieved, cathartic sound tears from his throat, almost a scream, and he dashes over.

“ _Niha_!”

She’s naked. Meditating, as far as he can tell. Otherwise, she’d have heard all of his shouting. He reaches a tentative hand towards her, and then retracts it quickly. A glance down over the edge of the balcony only serves to deepen his panic: _what if she were to fall? What if she were to fall because I accidentally startled her?_ He would never, ever forgive himself.

Muttering frantically, he runs back inside and snatches a blanket from the bed. And then he returns to the balcony, bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet as he sizes up his move. And then with a lunge and a desperate cry, he casts the blanket over her shoulders, and wraps his arms around her.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, pressing his nose into the side of her neck, “I’ve got you, Nih.”

He jumps when she inhales sharply, her body tensing in his grasp. And then she exhales deeply and evenly, and her hand rises to clutch at his. He can feel her looking around, craning her neck back to try and see him.

She blinks away the haze of her meditation, shaking him lightly. “What’s going on, beloved? What’s happened?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, still clinging to her, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t know where you were, and— I th-thought that maybe you left because I was bad, or—”

“What? Where would I possibly go?” she asks gently, shifting around to face him. She recognizes the signs on his face that he’d been doing his strange, half-crying; it always breaks her heart. “You poor little thing.” She wraps her arms around him, and he presses his face into her neck.

“P-please don’t s-send me away,” he whimpers. _Please, please, please, please._

“Send you away? My sweet, I would never. Look at me—” she gently lifts his face up, thumbs stroking across his cheekbones, “I would not send you away.”

“Okay.” His lip quivers, and she kisses him to stop it.

“Come,” Annihila coaxes, taking him by the hand and unfolding her legs to step down from the balustrade.

She leads him back inside, and he walks so closely beside her, clutching at her arm, that she’s a little worried she’ll trip over him. But she doesn’t. She extricates herself delicately from his grasp to toss the blanket back onto the bed, and then his hand is in hers again. Clinging.

It's a wonder to her, sometimes, how he manages to survive all alone, up on the _Supremacy_. Or if he’s only like this around her.

“ _Dhasias drida_ ,” she says gently, turning to drag her nose along his cheek, “I need to shower.”

“Oh.” She can hear the subtle hurt in his voice. “O-okay.”

She kisses the shell of his ear. “You can come, if you’d like.”

His entire body seems to exhale in relief, and he follows her to the washroom. She steps into the dark stone shower, turning the water on with one hand while he clings to the other. After a moment, he finally releases her, and she steps into the stream. Her head falls back, her great length of hair saturating and growing heavy against her back.

She can sense him watching her. Standing just far enough away that he doesn’t get wet, but close enough that she can still feel the beat of his heart. And it’s growing faster.

She whispers, “I’ll close my eyes.”

He jumps at the sound of her voice, but his heart sings _yes, yes, yes,_ yes. “O-okay,” he whispers, and she hears the rustle of fabric behind her. And then he’s closer, and closer, and his hand is on her wrist, lifting it, bringing her fingertips to his cheek, and then he’s kissing her. She combs her hands back through his hair and he steps beneath the water with her, and it takes every ounce of self-control she has not to reach out and take him in her arms. She focuses on his hair, instead, his long, beautiful hair, surely growing so dark with the water.

With a shuddering breath, he takes her by the wrists again, opens her palms, and places her hands on his shoulders. And then he’s dragging them down his chest, slowly, slowly, and her fingertips feel for the first time what he keeps so desperately hidden.

The web of tangled scar tissue tears at her heart. Tiny burn marks, big burn marks, deep slashes. His stomach is perhaps the worst: laced with horizontal scars from what must’ve been a very sharp blade in the hand of a very cruel torturer. She knows where they came from. She’s seen it herself.

He slides her hands around his waist, then, setting them on a path up his back. After a moment, he releases her wrists. Trusting her to explore on her own.

Somehow, his back is even worse. Like he’s had hot irons pressed to his skin. At one point, she could swear her fingertips trace over another brand. Huttese, perhaps. It could be the word _ney_. Like the tattoo on his forehead.

“Niha,” he quavers, and she suddenly realizes how anxious he is.

“You’re so soft,” she murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”

“No.”

“Yes,” she insists, taking his hands and placing them on her own horribly scarred skin, “You are.”

They finish without incident, washing the haze of the night from each other’s skin. Techie seems to lighten, the longer she’s touching him. He becomes acclimated to it. And he guides her hands through the simple routines with a gentle compassion that seems so instinctive, so well-practiced, that she wonders at how long he’d been blind before his master gave him his cybernetics.

Her eyes remain respectfully closed until he’s dressed, and he tells her that she can open them again. To her delight, he’s donned yet another one of her garments. This time, it’s less a dressing gown, and more an actual gown. Long and black, with a deeply plunging neckline. She can see some of the scars on his chest, now. But the long sleeves make her realize that he never let her touch his bare arms.

Still, she smiles. And when she scoops the dressing gown he’d been wearing up off the floor and wraps it around herself, he smiles, too.

“Come,” she says, “I have something you may like.”

She brings him into the sitting room, where a small chest lies on the floor before the fire.

“Look,” she says, coaxing him to sit with her, and then she opens it, and his eyes widen.

Inside are innumerable, strange objects. Scraps of alien technology, bizarrely constructed circuit boards and little, handheld computers that have long since gone dark. Data cartridges in a variety of formats, containing untold secrets. Eerily shaped knives, and tools not made to be held by Humanoid hands like his and hers. Metal, metal, and little scraps of loose wire. There are other things, too, shimmering, delicate things: bits of ribbon and fabric, loose crystals. Chains and charms.

“Does it please you?” she asks, watching his expression brighten, “I had so hoped it would.

“Yes! Yes, of course! Where did this all come from?” he asks, reaching out a tentative hand.

“Other worlds,” she says, “Planets I’ve visited, that I’ve… Conquered. Go ahead.”

He begins to comb gently through the contents, making inquisitive sounds over some of the things he finds, curious little tongue clicks over others. The occasional high noise of delight. Though she never realized it before, these are the sort of sounds that keep her heart just soft enough.

He picks up an almost impossibly small plasma torch, clicking the trigger a few times. It burns purple, and he smiles. “What about this?” he asks, “Where did this come from?”

She doesn’t even have to think. “The Imperial shipyard on Corellia.”

“How about this?” He brandishes a long strand of brilliantly white, imperfect pearls.

“The lake district on Naboo.” She takes it gently from him, casting it around his neck. He blushes, but does not remove it.

“This?” A half-singed datapad of unidentifiable origin.

“That I found in the ruins of the Jedi Enclave on Dantooine,” she says, reclining on her side to watch him, chin propped up on her wrist.

“What’s on it?” he asks, eyes whirring and clicking as he inspects it closely.

“I have no idea. If you can crack it for me, I’ll love you forever.”

He looks down at her and smiles. Really, truly smiles. It’s the first time she’s ever seen it, and all she wants is more.

“R-really?” he murmurs.

She shakes her head, returning his smile. “ _Ki aki_ , I was already going to love you forever.”

He returns to the chest, keeps digging. “I bet I could crack most of this stuff, you know,” he announces proudly, withdrawing more little computers and memory boards.

“That’s because you’re so brilliant,” she praises, picking up a gilded hair clip she’d discovered on the beach on Cantonica. Armitage had let her come along, on that one, and they’d been so terribly beautiful. She felt right at home in that city, with all of its darkly glittering spires and mindless, decadent indulgences. It would be a perfect place, she thinks, if it weren’t for the incessantly groveling admirers and greedy, two-faced profiteers.

After a moment, she sits up, and slides around behind her Techie. He pauses his curious searching when he feels her hands in his hair, still a little damp, and then she’s combing it back with her fingers, gathering some of it behind his head, and pinning it out of his way. He smiles again, and though she can’t see it, she can feel it. Feel the warmth and light ebbing so freely from him. He feels safe. She likes that.

“ _Ki dhasias drida_ ,” she whispers, “Now you’re a Prince.”

“No,” he murmurs, though she can hear the shy pride in his voice.

“Then why do you look so like one?” She presses a kiss to his cheek before she stands.

“Wait, where are you going?” he asks, panic creeping into the edges of his voice.

“I have to do just a little work today,” she explains, stepping over to her wardrobe to don one of her imposing, structured dresses. “I think the Sith Eternal will mutiny if I don’t.”

He scrambles up onto the sofa, peering over the back to watch her. “Really?”

“No, beloved. Not really. But I still have to work.”

“H-how long will you be gone?”

“No more than two hours,” she reassures him, scooping her cape up off the floor and clipping it to her shoulders. “You have my word. And I’ll be just below your feet. Shall I have the _Rizûti_ bring you something to eat?”

“No, that’s okay.” He doesn’t know why he said it. He’s starving.

Luckily, she sees straight through him. “ _Kinriatsa_ ,” she dismisses with a wave of her hand, “I’ll have it brought up for you at once.”

“Th-thank you, Niha.”

She can see the anxiety on his face, and so she steps over to kiss him. “Crack that nasty little Jedi datapad for me, will you?” she asks, and she can feel his heart lighten a little.

His toes curl, hands tightening on the back of the couch. He’s afraid to ask, but he does anyway. “Can I— Well, the screen’s really broken, and I don’t think I have what I’d need to fix it here, so— I mean, I think I’ll have to, um… Can I use the Emperor’s console?”

“Of course, beloved. I’d give you the password, but something tells me you’d hardly have a need for it.”

At that, he finally casts her a cautious smile. “You want me to _hack_ the Emperor’s private console?”

She drags some of the rust from his lower eyelids. “Only because I know you’ll have so much fun doing it.”

“Yeah,” he admits, “Yeah, I will. Okay.”

“Alright.” She gives him a quick kiss, and it’s over before he has time to react to it. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

True to her word, his breakfast arrives within minutes. And true to her nature, she has it brought up by the same Acolyte who had been so discourteous towards him the previous day. Techie only casts him an anxious glance from his place on the floor, mutters quick thanks, and then he’s alone again. After that, he settles into the Emperor’s study, and he has free reign of the console by the time he’s finished his meal. Niha was right: he did have fun hacking it.

Just as he suspected, the screen on the datapad is completely fried. It takes him a while to spackle together the components he needs in order to connect it to the console, but he’s able to put something together without too much trouble. The data takes a while to download, since it’s such an ancient format, and so he sets about digging through the chest again, pulling out every piece of technology that may yet hold some hidden secret. Handheld computers, data cartridges, memory chips and drives of unknown origin. If he were back in his room on the _Supremacy_ , where he has more servers, more computing power, he’d be able to get to work breaking into all of these exciting things at once. Alas, he’s here, on Exegol. And the Jedi datapad is definitely the priority. So, he makes a neat stack of all the other treasures, guiltily hopeful that perhaps she’ll let him take some of them with him, when he goes back.

But he doesn’t want to think about going back, yet.

He gathers up a handful of wires that he appraises to be useless, and returns to the Emperor’s console. The download is complete, at this point, and it’s onto file conversion. A few quick taps on the keyboard set the console working, and it’s back to waiting. He sets about twisting the wires into little shapes with his fingertips. Starships and animals and little flowers. He makes a few flowers intended for his Empress, but he doesn’t know if he’ll have the courage to give them to her.

This is how he passed the time, during the worst of his slavery. When he was crammed beneath the screens in his cramped room, sweating between the server trees, shrinking and shrinking in the hope that he’d somehow manage to go unnoticed. But he’s not in his terrifying, windowless closet anymore, not sequestered away at the heart of that daunting fortress world. He’s at the top of an ancient pyramid hewn from black stone, in a wide-open, warmly-lit room where the Emperor of the entire Galaxy usually sits. He’s working on solving a fascinating but entirely unimportant puzzle because it’s what he likes to do, and he’s twisting wire flowers for the woman he loves.

_The woman I love._

In doing so, he completely loses track of time. After a while, and he can’t be sure how long, the console chimes brightly and he looks up to find that the file conversion has completed. Now comes the tricky part. Time to focus. He opens up a command window, blinks a few times, and then sets his eyes to work scanning over the lines and lines and lines of encrypted code.

This is the only time he likes his eyes: when they make it easier for him to do what he loves.

It isn’t long before he’s noticing loops and patterns and pitfalls, and after a few minutes, he’s tapping away at the keyboard again. Changing a character or two here, re-writing the occasional formula there. He’s muttering to himself, he knows, and that only happens when he’s really, really sunk into the rhythm of his work. It only happens when he’s _good_.

He cracks it far quicker than he’d expected, and soon, the secrets of that datapad begin to unfold before his eyes. And though he can’t read the symbols appearing on the screen, his eyes pick up the coding patterns that denote a holo-program. And he knows a map when he sees one.

When he hears the doors to the residence open, he nearly dives beneath the Emperor’s desk in a panic. But then come the familiar sounds of Niha’s footsteps: distinctive and comforting.

“It’s not Jedi!” he proudly announces as she appears in the doorway.

Her face lights up with curiosity. “Oh, no?”

“No!” he beckons, “Come look!”

She crosses the room to lean over the back of his chair, resting her chin on his shoulder. Though his panic spikes instinctively, he doesn’t flinch. Not anymore. Not even when her arms slip up under his, and she lays her hands on his chest. Because she’s not holding a knife, and she doesn’t want to hurt him. She wants to hold him.

“Look—” he points to the decrypted text on the screen, “I-I think it’s supposed to be code for a Rakatan Star Map, but, um… I don’t know what the language is.”

Though she cannot read it, Annihila would recognize the long, vertical lines, and tiny speckles of triangles anywhere. “Mando’a,” she breathes, “My god, how old is this?”

Techie shrugs, picking up the datapad to give it another idle inspection.

“I almost guarantee that this was forgotten on Dantooine by the Revanchist.”

He blinks up at her in surprise. “During the Mandalorian Wars?”

She nods, bringing her fingertips to hover almost reverently over the screen. “I’ll ask Kuruk to take a look at it. He’ll be able to tell definitively.” She looks down at her Techie, and he can see that her eyes a glistening. “This is brilliant. You’re so absolutely brilliant.”

He feels his ears burning, unable to suppress the proud smile on his face.

“Thank you,” she says, placing a hand on his cheek and drawing him into a kiss, “Thank you, _ki aki_ , thank you.”

That night, Techie stands awkwardly at the foot of the Empress’ bed, as she strips away her clothing and slips beneath the sheets. She watches, utterly fascinated, as he seems to struggle with words. His eyes are doing their telltale camera-shutter twitching as he looks down at her.

“Would you like to lie down?” she asks gently.

His reply comes by way of an urgent whimper. “Yes, please.”

“ _Ki aki_ ,” she smiles, beckoning to him.

He takes a hurried step forward, and then pauses. “Wait,” he says, and she can see him beginning to shake, his hands clenching and unclenching, “Wait, I wanna— _Mmm_ , can you maybe close your eyes again?”

Curious and amused, she acquiesces. And after a moment of tense silence, he takes a deep breath, and she hears the rustle of fabric. The bed sinks beside her, and she can feel the warmth of him slip beneath the sheets. After a few more seconds of fidgeting, he speaks again.

“Okay. Okay, you can open your eyes again.”

He’s lying on his side, facing her, with the sheets pulled all the way up to his chin. The expression on his face is fearful and imploring, as if he’s suddenly begun to doubt what he’d done. She rolls to face him, stretching her legs out blindly in his direction. He jumps when her foot touches his leg, but after a moment, he allows it. She winds her ankles between his, and she knows that her Synthflesh must feel cold, because he feels so warm. One of his hands slips tentatively around her waist, fingertips stopping to worry over a knot of scar tissue over her ribs.

The _shoni_ spear that left it had nearly pierced her heart.

“W-why doesn’t it bother you?” he asks softly, eyes downcast.

“I wear my scars with pride,” she says, “They're a record of all the things that failed to destroy me.”

Techie shifts uncomfortably. None of the scars he has came from really dangerous wounds, nothing that was actually life-threatening. Except for maybe his eyes. That could’ve killed him, he thinks. But his captors had such a vested interest in keeping him alive.

“Sweet boy,” she murmurs, combing a lock of hair from his face, “The invisible wounds have just as much potential to destroy us.” Boldly, she places a hand over his heart. “The ones in here.”

He can’t help the knot of discomfort in his stomach, and so he takes her hand away, dragging it up and settling the warmth of it on his own cheek. “Th-they did horrible stuff to me,” he suddenly blurts, “Not just my… M-my _eyes_ , but, like… Stuff I’ve never told anyone about. The Hutts, and the people on Siskeen, there, um… There’s a reason this says what it says.” He points to the brand on his forehead. “It was… It was relevant, for a while. Mostly when I was a kid.”

She nods. “I know, sweet boy.”

“Right.” He shakes his head, frustrated with himself. “Right, of course. Um… _Youdon’thavetodothis_.” It comes out as a single word.

“Don’t you want me to?” She’s studying his face, fingers moving over his cheek, brushing back fallen strands of his bright hair. Each touch is such exquisite torture.

He tries not to succumb. “I mean… It doesn’t matter. Like… Have you even ever actually, like, looked at me? Or…?”

“Of course, I’ve looked at you. I enjoy looking at you. You…” She draws her thumb over Techie’s lower lip. “Beautiful little thing,” she says, wondrous, index finger tracing down his nose

“You don’t have to pretend that I’m— I mean, like, that you like looking at me.” The corners of his eyes sting. “I don’t even— I can’t stand looking at myself. So.”

He’s spent a decade imagining her hands on him this way. This way and so, so much more. He’d stained his sheets more times than he can count and, once, he’d even shoved his fingers into himself, biting into the pillow when he’d come, hips in the air like a whore, spilling pathetically onto the already-ruined sheets, pretending it was the Empress’ palm around his softening cock. And each time, afterwards, he’d feel a wash of shame drowning him as he lay in bed, empty. How pathetic, how incredibly fucking stupid, to think that the Empress of the Entire Galaxy could actually want him.

And yet she’d asked him here. Him, now, _here_ , while the Emperor is off-world. And then last night…

“I’m sorry,” he says, choking on the words. “I know w-what I look like. I don’t know why you’re pretending, you don’t have to do this.”

Niha lifts her hand away, and he feels like he could die. That’s it. He’s disgusting, he’s hideous, and she can’t even pretend to want him anymore. Techie shuts his eyes again and wishes he could press out some tears, wishes he could feel their hot spill down his cheeks. He sits up, dragging the blanket along with him, wrapping it around his shoulders. Face in his hands, he folds his broken little body into itself. He has never been able to cry elegantly, and now, with these eyes, he can’t even cry at all. He sniffs hard, rubs at his face with the heels of his hands. In a moment, his chest is heaving with sobs, and when he tries to hold them back, he ends up choking on them, hiccupping.

He’s distantly aware that she’s moving, that the mattress is shifting with her weight. His whole body is wracked with little sobs now, and he pulls his knees to his chest. He’s taking up too much space, he can feel it. He needs to make himself smaller, he needs to hide, he needs to leave.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—I know you don’t actually want me, probably you just wanted someone, just someone _Not Hux_ , and I—I’m so fucking stupid, and I’m ruining it.”

A flat palm comes to rest against his back. It’s so gentle that it hurts him. Techie draws in a shivering breath, tries not to break under the touch.

“You’re not ruining anything,” she says. She’s behind him now, running her hand along his back, left arm slung across his chest. Her fingertips drift upwards, comb through his hair.

And then her legs are against his on both sides, and he feels a little like a child. But it’s different from when he was a child, because he’s safe and contained. He doesn’t quite allow himself to lean back into her chest, but he relaxes a little. He likes her hands moving over him. His sobs come slower now, hiccups more occasionally.

“Do you enjoy this?” she murmurs. He can feel her breath on the back of his neck, and even though he _should_ be scared, even though he _should_ believe this is a trick, it’s comforting.

“You don’t need m-me to—To t-tell you,” he argues, pointlessly defiant, “You can just _look_.”

She nods, and her hand sweeps upwards again, combing his hair back from his face. “I could, yes,” she concedes, “But I’d rather you tell me.”

“It’s good,” he finally moans, and he’s shocked by how raw, how desperate it sounds. He needs her hands, or maybe he just needs her. Or maybe he just _wants_ her. Or he’s scared of her. He doesn’t know, he can’t know. “It’s good, I promise, I like it. Don’t stop.”

“Come here.” She coaxes him in against her chest, leaning back against the headboard to cradle him in her arms. He falls into it gratefully, resting his forehead into the crook of her neck.

_She pulled a man’s heart out with her bare hand and gave it to her husband._

_She’s ripped people’s tongues right out of their mouths with her teeth and eaten them, right then and there, in front of them._

_She killed Kylo Ren and Darth Sidious._

_She says she loves you._

“Tell me your name.”

The question sends a bolt of panic through his chest. He stiffens, face reddening as he mumbles, “You know my name.”

“No,” she swiftly negates, “I don’t care about _Techie_ , or your SD-O designation. I want to call you by _your name_.”

He shrugs again.

“I’ve known it since the moment I saw you aboard the _Finalizer_ , and I’ve waited years for you to say it aloud. Your Empress tires of waiting.”

Still, he does not answer.

“Is it your home planet?” she whispers, “Bri’ahl?”

At that, he blinks hard. And then his eyes flit to hers, wide and glassy and so tentatively imploring. He stammers.

“Bri’ahl,” she repeats, more a statement than a question, and he shivers into her palm.

_Again. Again._

“No, you tell me,” she gently commands.

“Y- _yes_. Yes, it’s the… Well, I think it’s the planet I came from. I don’t know why, because there’s only a few Humans. Maybe it’s just because I r-really like the pictures I’ve seen of the forests, and I haven’t actually ever _seen_ a forest, just holos, or… But yes.” And then, so softly, “Please say it again.” _And again, and again, and again, forever, never stop._

She smiles. Darth Annihila smiles. And, for once, it is not the smile of a predator. “Precious thing.” She lifts the blanket, slips it around her own shoulders and, chest against his, she lays him onto his back. Her legs spread between his, and she settles her weight onto him, slotting her hipbones in against his. She can feel in him the burst of instinctive panic, the urge that so often comes to thrash and fight and escape, but he tamps it down quickly. Swallows it back, ignores it. She’s so proud. Nose brushing against his, she murmurs, “Bri’ahl… My Bri’ahl, my little treasure.”

“I-I like it when you call me that,” he quivers, light fingertips tracing along her upper arms, “No one else…” He exhales sharply, cathartically, “No one else has ever called me that.”

She surges against him, face pressed beneath his jaw to kiss. He feels that panic building again, like it always does, like he knew it would, but he promises himself now that he won’t let it take over. This is _meant_ to happen, he knows it. Every step he’s taken, his life over, has led him to this woman, this palace, this moment. This one inexplicable night. He _wants_ it. He wants to give himself to her, that maybe he could actually be hers.

_Maybe I could be hers._

“What else would you like me to call you?” she asks, hands slipping up his sides, squeezing gently at his ribs.

“Everything,” he breathes. “I— I like all of them.” _Just call me_ something _, I want to hear your voice forever, I could_ live _in it._ She’s smiling, he can feel it against his throat, but he’s breathing deeply, heavily, still afraid.

“What do you like best, my sweet?” Her teeth graze along his earlobe and he shivers.

“I don’t know,” he breathes. She does it again, tongue slipping out from between her teeth. “Oh, Niha, I don’t know.”

“Is it _treasure_?” A kiss, down his jaw. “ _Precious_?” Another, closer to his mouth. “ _Little one_? _My Prince_?” She punctuates each name with a brush of her lips. Heat coils in his stomach, he can’t keep his eyes open any longer. “ _Sweet? Beautiful_?”

 _Oh_ — He moans and nods, turning his head away to cast his wrist over his eyes.

“Beautiful,” she repeats, and his lip begins to quiver. “Beautiful boy, Bri’ahl, that’s what you are, you’re my beautiful boy.”

He can only nod, make a wispy sound from the back of his throat.

“Let me touch you.”

Again, he nods. “O-okay.”

She slips her left leg over his, sliding out from between his legs to recline on her side. She presses tightly against him, and the heaviness of her right leg still cast across him is strangely comforting.

“Look at me,” she coaxes, and he does. He reaches out to ghost a fingertip through the hollow of her cheek, gaze flitting here and there across her face until his eyes come to rest on her lips. And then he’s kissing her, and her hand is on his cock, all at once.

When Bri’ahl does this to himself, his hands are fast and rough and uncaring. It’s always been this way, since the first few disdainful times, listening for his captors as they walked past his door and thinking distantly of a young slaver who had been kind to him, once. Cursing that this was something his flesh seemed to require, even as his mind recoiled from it. Even now, older, he hasn’t been able to break the habit, to push away the fear that someone might walk in on him at any time.

Laugh at him.

Take advantage.

Make him do more. Things he doesn’t want to do.

Annihila’s long, slow strokes are the antithesis of all of that. Long, slow, gentle. Bri’ahl begs himself not to move, not to cry out, not to cry at all, but her focus is singular: making him feel good. And so, his back arches, and he lets a hollow gasp rattle from his throat. He almost wishes he could look down, watch what she’s doing, but that would mean lifting the blanket. That would mean her seeing too, and even now, he’s not sure he’s ready for that. His shoulders strain, his upper body quivers.

“Niha,” he breathes, the name becoming just an animal noise.

“There, my sweet boy, just like that,” she coaxes as his back bends. _Sweet boy_ swirls in Bri’ahl’s head, spiraling out like the arms of a galaxy, until it’s all he can hear, even over the ever-louder sound of his own panting breath.

She quickens her strokes, tightens her grip. With her free hand, she combs his hair out of the way, long nails drawing soft lines through the sweat on his brow. He bites his lip hard, hard, trying to hold back the whimper rising from his chest.

The orgasm sneaks up on him. She’s touching his cheek, murmuring, _beautiful, beautiful,_ over and over into his ear, and he’s thinking of the Empress calling him by his name, calling him _good_ , when she starts twisting her fist around his shaft.

He’s able to manage, “Niha—I’m sorry, I’m really—” before he comes, and the words are lost in the heaving breaths that punctuate his breathless whimpers. She strokes him through it, come spilling onto her knuckles and his stomach as he cranes desperately for her lips.

“Deep breaths, sweet one,” she murmurs into his mouth. She loosens her grip, slows a little, smooths back his hair when his body begins to tremble again. “Shall I stop?”

And even though it hurts a little, even though every part of him is suddenly tender and too-sensitive and raw, he says, “N-no, don’t.”

He feels her smile against his face. “Precious little thing,” she says. Bri’ahl shivers, sighs, and she shushes him gently. He strains to nuzzle into her face with his own, just to be _closer,_ and when he can’t quite reach, he settles for nudging at her cheek with his nose. She laughs a little, and he savors the feeling of it against his face. It makes him want to laugh, too.

“It’s not fair,” he breathes.

“What’s not fair, my darling?”

“W-well, I mean, you’ve done that twice for me, now, and I haven’t—I haven’t ever… For _you_.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, my sweet,” she sighs, rolling onto her back and coaxing his head against her chest. “That’s not the point of this.”

“Oh,” he says, still unconvinced, “Okay,” and he tugs the blanket a little higher and places his hand over her heartbeat. “When you had, um— The first time you ever did it, were you young?”

“Yes,” she nods, “16, by Human measures. Still in the Jedi Praxeum.”

The thought is so delightfully perverse, he has to stifle a shocked laugh. “Who was it with?”

“Just some boy. An Iridonian Zabrak.” She sighs. “Scandalous, I know.”

“What was it like?” Bri knows he sounds too eager, but he wants to know, and anyway, he’s becoming so relaxed and boneless beneath her gentle hands and he doesn’t want to. He wants to stay awake all night.

“It was adolescent,” she dismisses, “Not particularly memorable, save for the fact that it was the first time.”

Bri is still. His own teenage years were an endless parade of horror and abuse. No space, no time, for anything soft and kind and wanted. There were the Hutts, and when there weren’t the Hutts anymore, there was the Clan, and then the Order, and all the years since then have faded into one another. A blur of pain and loss and work, always work.

Until he met her.

“You could just show me,” he gently prods, “If you don’t want to talk about it.”

“You wouldn’t like me in your head, my sweet,” she says. Her hands fall still, her enfolding across his back.

“You can be gentle,” he says. “You’re always gentle.”

She considers it for a long moment. “If I let you see, you won’t try to dig around for anything else.”

He looks up at her, nodding in earnest. “I-I couldn’t go digging around even if I wanted to, you know that. A-and…” His eyes flit away. “It’ll make me feel better, I think. If you showed me.”

She sighs. “Come here,” she says, coaxing him up to sit astride her hips. “Sweet boy.” She leans him down gently, rests his forehead against hers, places her thumbs on his temples. Bri closes his eyes, lets his whole body relax into hers, and feels himself dip into her mind.

Niha is sixteen and a new boy has just joined the Praxeum. Taller than her, and thick with muscle. He has his _Jato_ already, snaking their way across his crimson skin; he’d been given them before his clan had sent him away. They’re in a forest, and the darkness is thick, but the stars are bright and the trees are alive with night sounds. ( _Yavin 4_ , she prompts) The boy is older, seventeen or eighteen. His name is Sul, she thinks, though she’s not sure anymore.

In the memory, there is a profound sense of yearning in her chest, so strong and deep that Bri feels it in his own chest, in the present, nearly thirty years later. She’s wanted this boy for months, having laughed with him, sparred and shared meals. His bed is across the room from hers and sometimes they stare at each other in the dark and silence and she wonders if he’s thinking about her like she’s thinking about him, but neither are strong enough yet to tell. She wants so badly to kiss him, and she’s even convinced herself that, one night, she’ll work up the nerve to climb into his bed and lay with him, but she’s young and unsure and afraid.

And yet they’re together, now. In the dim light, Bri can make out the graceful features of his face: thin lips, angular nose, square, adolescent jaw. Stronger and more beautifully masculine than he looked at that age. Stronger and more beautifully masculine than he looks now, mid-twenties. A ring of horns encircles his head, and one of them is broken. At once, Bri understands the she is the one who broke it. He feels her ache, her sudden anxiety, all of her longing aflame inside him as though it were his own.

Sul kisses her. There is a surge in her heart and Bri knows it means she’s never been kissed before. (He knows it because he’s felt that surge, too.) Niha is committing every detail to memory: the hot, copper taste of the boy’s mouth, the sound of his breathing, and the way he’s gathering her up in his arms. Skin on bare skin, he slings her legs over his shoulders and lifts her up. (They’re organic, still, of course they are. It will be years before her Master takes them.) And then he backs her up against a tree, and her fingers worry over his broken _orat_. She’s so preoccupied with whether or not it hurts him that she barely registers what he’s doing with his tongue. Her toes (she had _toes_ , then) curl against his ribs and when he lifts his face, gasping, Niha says, _I’Sharee nauk sharee,_ I like you. And Sul says, _Ci jen,_ I know, but it’s such a coarse dialect. She says, _I’Sharee enhil sharee jen_. I hoped you knew _._

The rest of the memory comes in flashes, hands and mouths and Niha feeling so full and so wanted. She lets the boy have her, clinging to that tree, and it’s clumsy and inexpert and a little frightening, but it’s… Okay. He’s softer and sweeter than she though he would be, and he calls her a name that she doesn’t let Bri hear. She shakes through it all but he kisses her, and it should be wrong. Zabrak gender roles aren’t like those of Humans, and anyway she’s Dathomirian and he’s _Iridonian_ , so she really shouldn’t be allowing this, but she _does_. When they’re done, Sul lays her down among the tree roots and presses against her back to hold her. She fixates on his hand on her stomach, his lips against the crook of her neck.

Before it all goes dark, Niha places a hand over his, and his fingers weave through hers, protective and possessive.

Her mind goes blurry after that. She pushes Bri out, builds up the walls again. He lets himself be pushed, because it’s softer and sweeter than he thought she would be.

“That’s enough,” she says.

“I want that,” Bri blurts, unable to stop himself. He’s embarrassed as soon as he’s said it, but it’s true. He wants that, wants her to want him that way, completely. Like he does. “I’m sorry, it’s just—it looked so nice. You felt good, you liked it. I could feel it.”

She shakes her head in dismay. “It wasn’t good, my sweet, not by any reasonable metric—”

“Niha,” he murmurs. “Please.”

She sighs deeply. “You want me to fuck you?”

He nods, tellingly enthusiastic. Blinks up at her with those wide eyes.

It comes, for him, in flashes and sensations. One moment she’s slipping a leg over his to sit astride his hips, and then her hands are weaving through his hair while she kisses him. Kisses and kisses and kisses, always so gentle. He tries to keep up. Tries to reach between them and help, help guide her, but she’s better at this than he is, and her fingers are brushing against his own, and—And—

And then he’s inside her. He’s inside her and it’s just heat and pressure, and the short, quick huffs of breath edging from his throat.

She sits up. She sits up, and the blanket falls from her shoulders, and at once, Bri’ahl can feel the rush of cool, night air on his bare chest. He panics. He’s felt these things before, these exact physical sensations. There’s someone standing in the corner with a knife, someone watching on a security feed, and if he doesn’t behave, if he doesn’t let her do this, _get it over with_ , then—

“No, sweet boy,” she whispers, bending to press her lips to his scarred skin. “I’m not that woman, and this isn’t that place.”

His head falls back, and a hollow, shuddering breath comes rattling up from his throat. At her command, his panic melts into something else, something that threatens to end this right now. But he won’t let it. He forces it down by sheer will alone, and slowly, he lets himself sink into the warmth.

No fear. No panic. Everything is just soft and safe and good.

Her hands slip up his back, then, coaxing him to sit, and he does. He rests his cheek against her chest and she bears down on him, taking him deeper and deeper.

His head swims at the sound of her voice; praising him, encouraging him. Telling him he’s beautiful and wanted. His body knows what to do, and he relinquishes control to instinct. Years of dreams are at once thrown into bright clarity as he duplicates them, hips snapping up to meet hers. But this isn’t a dream; it isn’t tainted with confusion and anger and shame. It’s Niha, and he’s inside her, engulfed and drowning.

He can feel her breath fluttering through his hair, her hips rolling effortlessly with his almost immediately frenzied pace, and later he knows he will regret that he didn’t take it slower, that he didn’t explore every inch of her beforehand and let her do the same, but his thoughts scatter with every thrust, and everything but love and need and bliss is blown from his mind.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts. He can only count time by each gasp, by the sound of her pulse mingling with his own.

He whimpers, fingertips pressing into her back. _Her scarred back, just as scarred as mine._ “Niha—"

“I know.” She’s not even panting.

“ _Niha_.”

“It’s alright.”

The thread of heat in his stomach finally snaps. Bursts of shimmers loop back around on themselves, constellations scattering away before his eyes. He looks up. Lifts his cheek from her chest to find that the look on her face is just as he’d always imagined: skin holding a little color, full lips parted, black hair cascading down over her shoulders and his. Only one thing is different: her eyes. Not pressed shut, but wide open, and unafraid. And Bri’ahl know now, in this moment, that she has always seen him.

“What happened to him?” he asks, just as they’re falling asleep. “Your Zabrak boy?” When she doesn’t answer, his stomach plummets. He’s overstepped, he’s being Bad and Annoying, and so curls his fingers through her hair and mumbles a quick, “I’m sorry.”

“Kylo,” she says, simply stating a fact. “Kylo Ren happened.”


	5. Chapter 5

It’s with a strange blend of sorrow and hopefulness in his heart that Bri’ahl steps back into his quarters aboard the _Supremacy_. Just a week ago, this room had felt like the safest place in the Galaxy. Now, it seems strangely small and dark. Cramped. The door seals behind him, and he sets the box of precious cargo he’s carrying down on the bed. Sighing deeply, he sets about turning on all of his computers and monitors, letting the familiar, pale blue glow wash over him.

The collar of his uniform is too tight. He hates it.

He returns to the box on his bed and lifts from it the gorgeous black and red dressing gown she’d let him take. He traces his fingertips along the smooth silk, debating for a moment. And then his mind is made up. He strips his uniform away, leaving it to lie in a crumpled heap on the floor, and slips the robe on over his shoulders. He can’t contain the small whimper of relief as he ties it around his waist.

 _This is the safest place in the Galaxy_ , he thinks, wrapping his arms around himself. _Any place where I can smell her and feel like she’s holding me._

He takes it a step further, gently drawing the long strand of Naboo pearls from the box and casting them around his neck.

 _There,_ he thinks proudly, _I’m still her Prince._

A loud knock at the door makes him jump, but he knows right away who it is. There’s only one person on this ship who insists on knocking, rather than using the door control to ring like everyone else.

When Bri’ahl opens the door, he’s faced with the imposing figure of, perhaps, his only friend besides Niha. Matt’s a big guy- taller than him, and nearly twice as broad. And he always looks sort of awkward, with his alarmingly yellow hair, and his unusually large ears and nose. He can be scary, sometimes. Quick to anger. But he’s a good person. A good radar technician. Like the Empress, Matt took pity on Bri early, and does his best to look out for him. Even if that means smacking lunch trays out of people’s hands and throwing radar equipment, which, more often than not, is just frightening.

“Hey, buddy,” Matt greets, the brightness in his voice undercut substantially by his characteristic, deadpan facial expression.

“Oh,” he stammers, “H-hey, Matt. What’s up?”

“Nothing.” He takes in the sight of the Tech with something almost like concern, eyes lingering on the delicate detailing of the robe, the strand of pearls around his neck.

Bri’ahl shrinks back a little, suddenly terrified of having to explain himself. “Do, uh… You wanna come in, I guess?”

“Yup.” With no ceremony, Matt pushes past him into the room. And before Techie can close the door, two more of their little group follow in his wake. A Stormtrooper, TM-8275, and an enlisted Lieutenant named Zak.

“Whoa, man,” TM remarks immediately, looking him up and down, “What the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing,” he mutters defensively, closing the door, “It’s just… Nothing. What do you guys want?”

“What are you _wearing_?”

His ears go red. “Clothes.”

“You look like Hux and Annihila’s kid.”

He crosses his arms defensively. “No, I don’t.”

The trio of well-meaning intruders settles in around the room, and Techie has to bite back the urge to tell Zak not to sit on his desk like that.

“What’s all this?” Matt flops down onto his bed, beginning to poke a finger through the box of computers and hard drives he’d brought up from Exegol. “Hey, this is really cool.”

“Don’t touch that stuff!” Bri’ahl cries, snatching the box away and holding it to his chest, “Th-that belongs to the _Sith’ari_.”

TM removes his helmet, looking to his friend in disbelief. “The _Sith’ari_?”

“The _Empress_ ,” Techie explains, more than a little condescension to be heard in his tone, “Darth Annihila? It belongs to—”

“Yeah, man, we know who the _Sith’ari_ is,” Zak interrupts, “So, does that mean that the rumors are true?”

Techie looks between them, anxiety mounting. “W-what rumors?”

“You know,” the Lieutenant shrugs, “That you’ve been appointed the Imperial Consort, and you just spent the last week with your legs wrapped around Mrs. Hux.”

He goes red, shrinking back a little. He tries to keep his tone casual as he asks, “W-where did you— Um, who told you that?”

“It’s all anyone’s talking about, man,” TM reveals, “Is it true?”

Bri is so flustered by this information that he can barely formulate sentences. “I-It’s— I don’t know! I don’t have to t-tell you anything, just ‘cause, like, you came in here and—”

TM gasps. “You _did_ , didn’t you?”

He blushes further, backing up against the wall and sinking to the floor. Eyes downcast, still clutching at his box of little treasures, he mumbles. “Well… Yeah. I guess.”

“ _What_?”

“No, you didn’t!” Zak gasps, leaning forward in intense interest, “Prove it! Tell us something that you’d only know if you’d fucked her!”

“How would _that_ prove anything?” he snaps, offended by the word choice, “You’d have no way of even knowing if what I said was true or not.”

“Shit.”

“Wait—” Matt holds up a hand, “Darth Annihila, the Empress of, like, the entire Galaxy, said, ‘Hey, you know whose dick I want while Hux is gone? This _completely random securities technician._ Let’s get him down here.’”

He shrugs. “She’s always liked me. She’s liked me since Starkiller. Remember all those officers she killed?”

“Ohh, I get it,” TM teases, reaching over to ruffle his hair, “She’s got a thing for redheads, huh?”

Techie shoves him away defensively. “Knock it off.”

“Cute little ginger twink for her to—”

“Shut _up_!”

“So… Wait, what did you guys _do_?” Matt probes.

“As if I’m gonna tell _you_.” He tries to make it sound defiant and intimidating, but it falls severely short.

“Did you kiss her?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles defensively, “Like, all the time.”

“Standing up, sitting down, or lying in bed?”

“All of— All three. All of that.”

“This would go a lot easier if you’d just _tell_ us, you know,” Zak presses.

“W-well, I’m not gonna.”

“Why? Was it _that_ — Wait.” TM holds up a hand. “Tech, was she your first?”

His silence is all the confirmation they need. Zak and TM start making a lot of noise, shouting and clapping, but Matt just gapes in silent shock.

“I’m surprised they were able to pull you out of the coma this quickly.”

“Yeah, is it safe for you to be walking around with a shattered pelvis like this?”

“Hey, sh-shut up, already!” Techie finally snaps, “She’s really—Really, I don’t know, _good_ and nice, and she really likes me.”

Matt finally speaks up, somewhat baffled. “Tech,” he sternly reminds him, “She’s _evil_.”

“What?” He shakes his head in frustration. “No, th-that’s not fair, Matt—”

“She killed Kylo Ren!”

Zak and TM groan in frustration.

“Yeah, you’re really gonna have to let that one go, man,” the Stormtrooper says wearily, “Your boy Kylo went off the reservation. He’d have gotten us all killed, if she hadn’t put him down when she did.”

Color rises to Matt’s cheeks, lips pressed together tightly. “That’s propaganda,” he mumbles.

Kylo’s not the issue, here, not really. He’s been following the saga of Techie and the Empress since day one, with increasing despair. Of course, it’s led to a lot of good. Techie has this big, sole-occupancy room, and the private washroom with hot, actual water instead of sonic, and all the officers are scared to even look at him funny, anymore. But even though Matt will never admit it out loud, maybe he thought that _he_ was Techie’s big, scary protector. Maybe he thought that, someday, the two of them would be more than friends. Because, unlike the other guys, he _does_ understand what the Empress sees in him. It’s the contrast between his soft, pale skin, and the bright red of his hair. The way his eyes always seem so wide and imploring when he blinks up at you. The delicate lines of his narrow little wrists. He’s like a wounded bird perched in your palm, trusting you not to make a fist.

Matt knows he’d never make a fist. He can’t say so of the Empress.

“Kylo’s not the point,” he grumbles, “She’s evil, regardless.”

“Yeah,” Zak nods, “Just think of all the evil she could do with those _lips_ of hers…”

“Yeah, hey, what’s that _lip ring_ feel like?”

A hot flush of humiliation crawls across Techie’s skin. “Hey!” he snaps, “All of you, s-stop talking about her like that! R-right fucking now!”

The Lieutenant holds his hands up in defense. “ _Whoa_!”

“Yeah, easy there, little guy!”

“ _Little_ —” He screws his face up in frustration, trying to hide the trembling in his lip. “N-no!” he insists, “No, you—You all just listen! I know she’s evil, you don’t need to f-fucking remind _me_ about it! I just spent a week in the fucking Citadel of Sith! But when you’re hanging on by your—Your f-fingernails, you don’t just go waving your hands around in the air like, ‘ _Oh, hey, Niha, can you maybe not conquer any more planets? ‘Cause these three assholes I know don’t like it!_ ’ I’m b-barely keeping _myself_ alive, here. And you can think whatever you want about it, but she’s nice to me. I—” He swallows hard, shaking his head against the imminent admission. “I feel really— Just really safe, when I’m with her. And I haven’t exactly had a lot of life experiences that make me feel safe. Especially with… Whatever. _Women_. I don’t know. Just shut up.”

The stunned silence that falls over the tiny room is virtually palpable. The trio of well-meaning intruders blinks down at their friend in complete shock.

“Tech,” TM marvels, “Do… Do you call the Empress ‘ _Niha’_?”

“Yeah,” he snaps.

“What does she call you?” Matt asks.

He almost blurts, ‘ _Bri’ahl,_ because that’s my name, I’ve _decided_ ,’ but manages to bite it back. “She calls me a bunch of stuff,” he says. “ _Mohtiyi woiunoks_ , that means ‘my brave little one’ in High Sith. Or _ki aki_. That means ‘my heart.’ Sometimes she just says ‘beloved’, like in Basic. O-or… _Dhasias drida_ , that’s…” he stammers, blushing hard, “That means ‘beautiful boy’. I don’t know, shut up! You probably just think it’s stupid, but it’s not! You don’t know.”

Matt’s heart breaks a little, because he doesn’t think it’s stupid at all. He thinks the Empress describes him perfectly.

“Are…” Zak hesitates, desperate not to sound judgmental after Techie’s recent outburst, “Are you wearing her clothes?”

He looks down at the silk robe, lifting at the collar. “Yeah, I mean… This is hers. She let me take it, until I see her again. I’m going back in a tenday.”

“Tech,” he breathes, “What the _fuck_.”

He shrugs defensively. “Well, I mean… I’m the Imperial Consort, so…”

“ _Fuck_ , man,” TM marvels, “Fuck, _you_? Out of everyone in the Galaxy?”

“Yes, _and_ —” he quickly adds, brandishing the box in his lap, “She gave me all of this stuff, because it’s, like, tech stuff she’s found all over the Galaxy and she doesn’t know what’s on any of the drives, or even how most of it works, so I’m gonna figure it all out for her.”

“Like… As a securities job?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Just for fun. It’s all really old stuff, anyway, none of it is important to the Empire, or anything. Down on the planet, I hacked the Emperor’s private console and decrypted a Rakatan Star Map left over from the Mandalorian Wars.”

The trio can’t decide what part of the sentence is the most baffling.

Matt swallows hard, bracing himself for something he doesn’t want to hear. “Are you still gonna live up here, on the ship? Or is she transferring you to Exegol?”

“No,” he’s quick to explain, “I-I said I still wanted to keep my job, because, like… You know, I _love_ my job. I’m really good at it. I didn’t _have_ to keep it, though, she said I can move down to the Citadel whenever I want, or even Coruscant, but… I don’t know, I just like working. And I don’t really wanna spend all my time trying to hide from the Emperor, e-even though she says I don’t _have_ to hide from him, so I’m just gonna go down when he’s gone, probably.”

Something strange and disturbing occurs to Zak, then. “Are you getting a pay raise, for this?”

Techie reddens, shrugging noncommittally.

The Stormtrooper groans aloud, rising to his feet. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Zak follows suit, shaking his head in dismay. “Whatever, man. Be like that. We’re out of here.”

“Yeah, have fun with your genocidal madwoman.”

“Don’t come crying to us when she bites your dick off.”

Bri stammers in shock. “Sh-she wouldn’t do that!”

“ _Whatever_.”

With no further ceremony, they stomp from the room, leaving him alone with Matt.

“What?” Bri’ahl snaps, already defensive.

“Nothing,” he’s quick to reply, “Nothing, I just… I’m kinda worried about you, buddy.”

He sighs in frustration. “What? Worried about what?”

“Just that she’s, like, using you, or something.”

He rolls his eyes. “Using me for what? Better Net traffic security parameters? More efficient protocols for threat detection? She wouldn’t need to go through all this trouble, I literally already work for her.”

“Yeah, and… I mean, don’t you think that’s a little weird?”

He bristles defensively. “No.”

“But, Tech, like… _Why_?”

“Because she likes me and she thinks I’m beautiful!” he says, with all the resolve and definition he can muster. “If she was the Emperor and I was, like, a pretty young woman or whatever, you literally wouldn’t be saying any of this. Kings and Emperors do this kind of thing all the time, that’s like, _part of it_ —"

“I mean, I guess, but—"

“—you’re just f-freaking out because it’s opposite!”

Matt huffs in frustration. “Not all Kings and Emperors eat people’s tongues when they get angry.”

“She won’t do that to me! She— She calls me by my name.” Bri presses cringes, shakes his head. As though his denial might un-make the knee-jerk admission.

Matt blinks in shock for a moment. “Your— What?”

“I picked a name,” he reveals in a small voice.

“But I thought that Techie _was_ —"

“I don’t wanna be called that, anymore,” he announces, “I wanna… I wanna be called Bri’ahl.”

“Oh.” Unexpected, but nothing Matt can’t process. “Oh, okay. Um… Like the planet?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “Like the planet.”

* * *

“ _Annihila, what the_ hell _is wrong with you_?”

She rolls her eyes. “Stop screaming, you’re acting like such a—" _Human._

“Not until you explain yourself to me!”

“Everyone can hear you, Armitage.”

“I DON’T GIVE A DAMN!”

It is with an air of detached boredom that Annihila stands stock-still in the center of their sitting room, watching her husband pace back and forth. Hux is furious. He came home from Coruscant angry, and her flat, emotionless announcement of what she’d done while he was gone, well… It didn’t help.

“Where?” he demands, gaze darting between every surface in the residence, “ _Where_?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Everywhere.”

“Who witnessed him here?”

“Most people.”

He groans in frustration. “What is he, then? What’s the point? Is he to be your son, your heir?”

“No,” she bristles.

“Good, because you can’t _fuck your heir_ ,” he spits.

“You never _shut up_ about how you’re not the Royal Consort, so I appointed one."

“Do you mean to— To leave me, is that it?”

Annihila rolls her eyes. “Of course not, don’t be stupid. You’re taking this far too personally. I just enjoy him. Perhaps if you didn’t leave me here alone so often, I wouldn’t—"

“I’ve told you before, move to Coruscant. It’s exhausting for me, you know, flying back and forth like this.”

“I hate Coruscant,” she snaps, “I need to be close to the Vergence, here. I want to do _this_.”

“ _I’m_ — No. No, absolutely not. I’m putting a stop to this, right now. You can’t keep him as a pet.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” Hux stammers, aghast. “He’s a Human man!”

“And?” She gives him a dismissive wave. “He doesn’t mind, he loves it.”

“ _Loves_ — No. _No_. You can’t.”

“Why not?” She smirks, relishing in the taste of the words as she says, “I’ve kept you.”

The back of his hand collides with her cheek, so hard and so fast that it surprises even her.

_“HOW DARE YOU!”_

The Empress barely flinches, barely reacts at all, save the unavoidable _snap_ as her head is thrown to the side. She can taste the blood on her tongue almost instantly.

She brings her hand to her lips, examining them with a kind of mild, detached interest. “Yes,” she muses, far too coolly for Hux’s comfort. “There’s the man I bound myself to.” Without warning, she returns the blow, putting all the strength and power into it that she can.

The Emperor cries out in shock, feeling her nails rake across his cheek as he recoils. He’s trying in vain to stumble away from her, to put some distance between himself and this wild animal, but he loses his footing, and falls to his back. And then she’s lunging for him, descending upon him with a kind of hungry look in her eyes, but he’s quick. He cocks a leg back, kicks her in the chest, sending her crashing gracelessly to the floor.

“You _bitch_!” he snaps, springing forward before she can retaliate. His hands wrap around her wrists like vises, pinning them beside her head. He straddles her hips, holding fast as she fights and kicks.

“There he is,” she says, baring her bloodstained teeth, “ _There’s_ the man I fell in love with! The man who destroyed Hosnia, who wrapped his belt around my neck and—”

“Shut up!” he commands, slamming her wrists into the floor. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! I AM YOUR EMPEROR!”

She laughs. “And who gave you your throne?”

“ _How dare you_!” he repeats, one hand flying to her throat. He forces her head back, pressing hard. But she just keeps laughing.

“Which is it, Armitage?” she taunts, entirely unbothered by his attacks. “Exalt me like a queen, or tear me down like a whore?”

 _Both_ , he thinks, vaguely baffled by the question. _Hasn’t it always been both_? He shakes his head, roars in frustration. “Shut _up_!”

“Majesties?”

Hux and Annihila turn their attention abruptly to the door, where Wrend is peering tentatively into the room.

“Is there a problem?” he asks tentatively.

“ _NO_!” they shout in unison, and he scurries away.

It’s enough to break the tension. Enough that, as they look to one another again, they realize, perhaps, how ridiculous they’re being. Hux lets go to sit back on his heels, still straddling her hips. Beneath him, Annihila lies with her arms outstretched, open to the mercy of his whims.

“What are you going to do, then?” she asks, and he can hear the goading in her tone.

“I don’t know,” he shudders, pressing the heel of his hand to his eye. “God damn you, I don’t— I don’t know.”

“We need to communicate with one another,” she announces, only because it seems like the sort of thing to say to a Human in this situation. “This is… Untenable.”

He scoffs. “I’m well-trained in effective communication and you’re a mind-reader. Perhaps our problem is that, after all these years, we understand each other far too well.”

“And what? You simply don’t care?”

Another scoff, Hux rubs at his temples. “I don’t know what the hell to do with you, Annihila. Really, I don’t.”

She verbalizes the thought the moment it occurs to her. “This really hurts you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” he snaps defensively, “Yes, it does.”

“You would keep me caged up, in here. Locked away until you need me.”

“I want no such thing!”

“I’m not a weapon you can simply power down and set aside.”

 _Fuck, is that how she feels? Is that what I’m doing? FUCK._ But he can’t fold, now. He has to double down. “What I want is for you to conduct yourself with a modicum of grace and dignity for once, instead of— Instead of whatever the hell it is you’re doing! Kriff, you’ve been killing people, apparently _fucking_ whomever you please! This… This sort of wild behavior of late is conduct unbecoming for _any_ adult, let alone an Empress!”

“I’m not an Empress,” she pointedly corrects, “I’m the _Sith’ari_.”

“Oh, yes,” he sneers, “Of course, the _Sith’ari_.”

“You mock the distinction, but it’s an important one!” she snaps, “You would bind me into Human roles, with your Human definitions, but those things do not apply to me! They never have! You knew this when you—”

“When I what?”

“ _When you chose me_.”

He snarls in frustration, rubbing at his forehead as if to dismiss her.

“That’s good,” she whispers, cruel and sardonic, “ _Feel_ something towards me, for once. If it’s hatred, so be it. That’s _fire_.”

“I’ll show you fire,” he mumbles.

“You’ve null to me, now; you’re like a void in the Force, shaped vaguely like Armitage Hux. _That’s_ what I went looking for, in that boy,” she finally reveals, “Feeling. Some semblance of being needed, of being valued for more than my blades and my teeth. Something _reflected,_ for once, instead of this deadened, machine-man you've become.”

It hurts. It stings like a shard of ice, jammed in his throat. He can feel his eyes beginning to sting, but _NO,_ he tells himself, _don't you dare_. “I’ll show you fire,” he repeats, louder this time.

She scowls. “What?”

_“I said I’ll show you fire!”_

* * *

Grand Admiral Dryden never really knows what he’ll see, when he steps into the throne room on Coruscant, especially when the Empress is on-world. But he certainly didn’t expect _this_.

“Grand Admiral,” the Emperor greets serenely. As though he doesn’t have a claw mark scabbing on his cheek. As though the _Sith’ari_ isn’t sitting on the floor before the throne, chin resting on his knee. As though she’s not rolling her eyes as he yanks on the chain around her neck. “Say _hello_ , darling.”

She doesn’t respond.

“Am I interrupting something?” Dryden asks, unsure of where to look.

“Not hardly,” Hux reassures him, “The Empress simply requires the occasional reminder of her place.”

“Yes, Armitage does so enjoy his little games,” Annihila pointedly remarks, “Aware though he is that this chain will do nothing to stop me killing him, should the mood take me.”

That earns her a sharp jerk of her leash and a stern, “Behave.”

Dryden clears his throat. “I, ah… I came to brief you on the… Situation with the Trade Spine.”

“Well, then, by all means. Brief.”

As the Grand Admiral starts to rattle off mind-numbing statistics about trade and tariffs and embargos, Hux’s gaze drifts down to his wife. She’s furious, he can tell. Face twitching with annoyance, but other than that, entirely motionless. She was right, what she said to Dryden. There isn’t a force in the Galaxy strong enough to stop her killing him, should the mood happen to take her. Not a chain, not a palace, not the entire strength of his armada. She doesn’t need him, like she didn’t need Kylo. And if ever she tired of him, his disposal would be a simple, mindless affair for the One Sith of Prophecy. She could _unmake_ him.

But she’s here. Sitting at his feet, on the end of a chain clutched in his fist. Taking it. And that can only mean that she loves him.

Though she’s staring off into the distance, defiant as ever, she can sense his gaze. Sense the tangle of borderline-disrespectful noise bursting at the seams of his mind. _Armitage, what?_

He can’t stop the thought: _You’re beautiful and I love you._

She scoffs aloud, and Dryden pauses. He can’t for the life of him pinpoint what he’d said to annoy her, and it’s a moment too long before he realizes that neither the Emperor nor the Empress are paying him any mind whatsoever.

Hux beckons to his Grand Admiral, giving a diplomatic smile. “Please, continue. Mon Gazza?”

He clears his throat. “Yes. The universal abolition of slavery has caused ripples that we’re still discovering, a decade later. Production has slowed, and The Grand Moff of the Torch Nebula waystation points to a Mon Gazzan conspiracy. It’s delaying Scarn shipments along the Llanic Run, and the Terminus is threatening to take their business to the Yarubas on Kessel, as they—”

_Are you having fun, Armitage?_

He considers it for a moment. _Yes, actually_. He punctuates the admission with a sharp tug on her chain, forcing her to sit up straighter.

 _Good_ , she snaps. _I imagine it’s been years since you’ve had any fun._

He cocks an eyebrow, studying her intensely. Is this—? What is this? What is she saying? _Should I get rid of Dryd—_

_Get rid of Dryden._

It’s all the permission he needs. “Dryden?” Hux interrupts.

He clears his throat. “Yes, Sir?”

“Get out.”

He bows his head respectfully. “Yes, Sir.”

Hux is tugging on the chain, hauling her up towards his lap before the man has even left the throne room. She moves to rise, lifting at her long skirt, but he cocks a leg back, puts his foot on her shoulder.

“What’s the matter with you?” she snaps.

“No.” He kicks her back down to her knees. “Keep your kriffing clothes on. That’s not what this is.”

“What is it, then?” she huffs.

“Your heartfelt apology.”

On his way to the lift, Dryden bumps into Annihila’s lead Acolyte, heading for the throne room. He catches the man by the chest. “Wrend—” he sighs, “No, I wouldn’t go in there, now.”

“Why?” he snaps, craning to look over the Grand Admiral’s shoulder.

He only catches a fleeting glimpse of the scene: the _Sith’ari_ kneeling before the throne of her Force-null Human mate, one of Hux’s hands on the back of her head, the other clutching at the chain around her neck.

The Acolyte sneers, turning away. “Disgraceful.”

“Ahh, don’t be like that,” Dryden nudges, leading him back towards the lift. “You know you’d do it too, if you were the Ruler of Known Space.”

He shakes his head, repulsed by the suggestion. “Absolutely disgraceful.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Hux manages, still struggling to recover from what Annihila has just done to him. He rakes a gloved hand through his hair, quick and frustrated. “Keep him. Keep him, what the hell do I care?”

She casts him a dubious glance, lips still swollen and glistening. “Do you mean that?”

He groans, swatting at her hand and squirming away from her. “Yes, goddamn you, _yes_.” And then, after a beat, “But if you ever leave me, I swear, Annihila, I’ll rip your heart out.”

She exhales a monosyllabic laugh, unable to deny the perverse thrill it sends coursing through her chest. “My Starkiller,” she replies, fingertips burning with fire, “To leave you would be to tear it out myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When a Sith gets bored, shit gets... Weird.
> 
> Also, literally don't do kink around the non-consenting public. Not even if you're the Emperor and the Sith'ari.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Students of the EU, and particularly Sith history, will know precisely where I'm going with this.

Ten days later, Bri’ahl arrives back on Exegol. He’s dressed in a crimson gown she’d had made especially for him. Fitted to his arms and torso, with a long, billowing skirt. Delicate chains of gold are strung between the shoulders, and he likes that, because it makes them look broader than they are. Half of his hair braided back (Matt had done it for him, after he’d given himself a panic attack trying to do it on his own) and secured by the gilded clip she’d found on Cantonica. A beautiful, found thing, she’d said. For her beautiful, found thing. He carries with him his box of treasures, and nothing else. He has nothing else.

He’s met at the foot of the pyramid by the same Acolyte who had given him so much trouble, last time. Wrend, his name is.

“Bri’ahl Suzrikid’i,” he acknowledges through gritted teeth, “The _Sith’ari_ is in the residence. May I take your… Box?”

“No,” he’s quick to reply, clutching his treasures a little closer to his chest, “No, thank you. I can carry it.”

He sneers. “I’ll bring you to her, then.”

“O-oh, no, that’s okay,” he blurts, giving the Acolyte a wide berth as he walks by, “I-I know where the lift is.”

He hurries through the pyramid, avoiding eye contact with the _Rizûti_ as much as he can until he’s safe in the lift. Once he’s alone, and the minute-long ascent underway, a cautious smile begins to tug at his lips. He’d figured out the secrets of every single piece of tech she’d given him, and he can’t wait to show it all to her. Ancient Rebel battle plans, Jedi texts translated into obscure languages. Games and music files and personal photographs. Even an Echani stage play. Maybe she can read Echani. Maybe she can read it to him.

Beaming, now, he steps off the lift, and strides proudly down the long corridor to the living quarters. The doors are shut, but he thinks nothing of it as reaches out and knocks. He’s humming with anticipation as he waits, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, clinging to his box of demystified technology. And then the door opens, and his eyes go wide.

The Emperor.

Frozen on the spot, Bri’ahl almost screams. Hux is frowning, looking him up and down as if to make some sort of appraisal.

Finally, he manages to squeak out a terrified, “ _I’m sorry_!” Too loud. Almost a shout.

Hux scowls, rolls his eyes, and then flings the door wide before storming away in a huff. “ _Annihila_!”

Bri jumps, shrinking back. It’s the Emperor’s orator voice. The voice he uses to destroy entire systems.

“What is it, my Starkiller?” she calls from around the corner.

“Your…” He grumbles something indistinct, voice dropping low, “Your _boy_.”

She gasps, and then begins speaking very quickly. “ _Tlesu chu nȃkli dati_?” (Did you shout at him?) Not High Sith, he can recognize High Sith, by now. It must be Ul’Zabrak.

“If I did, it’s your fault,” he snaps in a harsh whisper, “I told you, I don’t want to see him.”

Bri’ahl lingers in the doorway, quivering with quiet terror as they bicker in the bedroom.

“ _Yol meni pu koshal_!” she says, “ _Chu meni h'mloer kefro!”_ (This is your fault! You’re late again!)

He scoffs, “No, darling, that would be your fault, too.”

“Forgive me, my Liege Lord, was that a _complaint_?”

“Annihila.”

“Heart of my heart,” she says wearily, “You promised me that I could have him.”

No answer.

“ _Armitage_.”

“Fine!” he snaps, “Fine, god damn you, _fine_.”

She continues muttering in Ul’Zabrak. “ _Shar keyn het ayt Vake, szi shar gakhlita onis het_ _ayt_ Dathomirian—” (He speaks of Human hearts, but knows nothing of Dathomirian hearts—)

“Ani,” he cautions.

Behind him, Bri hears the lift doors hiss open. One of the Knights of Ren, unmasked, is approaching. He gives the techie a quizzical look.

“Hey, man,” the Knight says casually, offering a hand. “Kuruk.”

He takes it, giving it an awkward shake. “B-Bri’ahl Suzrikid’i.” With a strange rush of pride, he realizes it’s the first time he’s introduced himself by that name.

“Nice to meet you.” Kuruk nods towards the mixed murmurs from inside the residence. “What are they doing? Fighting or fucking?”

“Oh, uh… Fighting.”

He rolls his eyes. “Wow, what a shock. Okay.” He cranes his head through the doorway and shouts, “ _Hey_! His Imperial Highness is behind schedule, _again_ , and everyone is going to think it’s my fault! _Again_!”

“Is that you, Kuruk, darling?” Annihila calls.

“Yes!” he replies, pounding an impatient fist on the doorframe, “Armitage, let’s _go_!”

“I’m coming, god damn you,” the Emperor snaps.

He and Annihila finally emerge from around the corner, and Bri can’t suppress the instinct to smile and wave. Hux scowls.

_Fuck, stupid, stupid, stupid._

“Armitage!” Annihila interrupts, catching him by the wrist.

He rounds on her wearily. “What?”

“Tell me you love me.”

“Ani…”

“Tell me you love me, or I’ll throw myself from the balcony the instant you leave, and land at your feet outside.” She pulls up her right sleeve and offers him her hand.

After a beat, he acquiesces with a sigh, and follows suit. They clasp hands, lining up the rings tattooed on their arms so they’re bound together.

“I do love you,” he whispers, leaning his forehead against hers, “You know that. And I’ll see you in four days.”

With one final kiss, the Emperor turns and leaves. He doesn’t even look at Bri on his way by, shoving past him so quickly that his cape whips against the boy’s leg.

“It’s _her_ fault,” he murmurs to the Knight.

He claps him sympathetically on the back. “I know it is.”

When they are finally alone, Annihila extends a hand to Bri. “Beloved.”

He exhales a terrified, shuddering breath and enters the residence, setting his box down on the table before stepping gratefully into her arms.

“Don’t let him frighten you,” she says, “He’s only a man, the same as you.”

Bri squeaks out a pained laugh. “Not the same as me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she reassures him, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I m-might need a minute,” he mumbles against her shoulder, “Before I’m glad about anything.”

“You look beautiful,” she compliments, “Be glad about that.”

Annihila dons one of her more delicate Imperial headpieces (the black spikes that cling to her temples like a half-wreath), and Bri helps clip the gossamer black cape to her shoulders. And then they descend the lift together, her arm slung so comfortably around his waist.

She brings him down to her audience chamber, and it’s the first time he’s ever seen it. It’s a massive, circular room in the very heart of the pyramid, with rows and rows of seats rising all around. And, right in the middle, lies the Throne of Sith; large and imposing and carved from obsidian. He can see, now, that her circlet is meant to emulate its design. Massive, black spikes extend out from the sides of the Throne like terrible claws, seeming to be frozen in the act of folding in around whomever occupies it.

This is the room in which she defeated Darth Sidious. The room in which the New Empire was born.

She takes her seat, and he hangs back for a moment. He doesn’t like that throne, the way it seems like it’ll close around him like a trap if he gets too close. But she coaxes him into her lap in her gentle, commanding way, and he feels a little safer.

In a strange way, it seems like he can finally sense all of the _might_ in this place. Sitting atop the Throne of Sith, in the arms of the _Sith’ari_. Never in his wildest dreams would he have pictured it. Nor would he have anticipated it feeling so good.

The red-draped Sovereign Protectors are all around, standing guard in stoic silence, but to her, they may as well be scenery. She carries on speaking to her _dhasias drida_ as though they were still alone in her residence, letting her fingers weave delicate braids through his long hair.

“You ought to braid my hair sometime,” she suggests.

“Oh, uh…” He grimaces a little, recalling all too well the lengths Matt had had to go to in order to calm him down, earlier. “I don’t know how.”

“I’ll teach you, then,” she says, combing her fingers through his hair, “Nothing would make me prouder than to charge into battle wearing braids you’d woven for me.”

He beams guiltily at the image: himself, twisting ornate braids through the long, black spill of her hair while her _Rizûti_ strap the armor to her chest and legs. It fills him with so much pride. Maybe she’d kiss him off before leaving for battle, and return bloodstained and victorious to kiss him again. And then another idea occurs to him, just as thrilling.

“I-I could paint your face,” he impulsively offers, immediately cringing at himself for it. And then, true to form, he grossly overcorrects. “I mean, I’ve never done it before, _obviously_ , but, like… It might be— I don’t know, I might be good at it, maybe. And I know how you like it done, when you go into battle, because I saw it, once. You had a red stripe over your eyes, and three lines down from your lip. Like, down your chin. So… I don’t know.” He seems to deflate, disappointed in himself.

“ _Mohtiyi woiunoks_ , what’s gotten you so anxious, today?” she asks gently, “Is this all because of Armitage?”

As usual, she’s cut straight to the core of him. He stammers for a moment, glancing around the room. “Y-yeah, I… Yeah. He hates me.”

“No, my sweet. He simply loves me.”

“Well, yeah. And—” His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper and he admits, “I guess there’s just a lot of people looking at me right now.”

“Shall I command them to put their own eyes out?” she offers, a playful smile on her face. “They’d do it.”

“No!” He puts a hand over her mouth, shaking his head frantically. “That’s not funny, Niha, I told you before that’s not funny.”

She takes his hand away from her lips, leaning in to brush her nose against his. “ _Ki aki_ , be still. You worry too much.”

The sudden sound of rapid footsteps draws their attention.

“My Lord!” Wrend shouts, sprinting across the room towards the Throne, “Forgive my interruption, _ri Sith’ari_ , but we have an intruder!”

Bri moves to stand, but she places a stilling hand on his waist, holding him to her lap. “What?” She scoffs, almost a laugh. “What are you talking about, _intruder_?”

“There’s a man outside, _ri Sith’ari_ ,” he pants, “He flew under the radars, and landed outside the Citadel. The Sovereign Protectors have him contained, but he’s demanding an audience.”

The Empress blinks in surprise. She didn’t think such a thing was possible. “He slipped our security systems and landed on the surface of _Ixigul_ … For an _audience_?”

“ _Char, Sith’ari_.”

 _How did I not sense this? Am I so distracted? Then again,_ _perhaps this is no mere guest_.

“What would you have us do, _ri_ _Sith’ari_?”

There’s a thought gnawing away, at the back of her consciousness. Dangerous, she knows. Possibly quite reckless. Armitage would certainly not approve.

After a beat, her mind is made up.

“Well, _ki_ _Rizûti_ , it would seem we find ourselves in a situation without precedent,” she says casually, “He’s lucky that the company of my _dhasias drida_ has put me in such an allowing mood.”

Despite his anxiety, Bri’s ears burn a little, that she called him that in front of people.

“Send him in,” she commands, “I’m fascinated.”

The Acolyte blanches. “My Lord, he’s carrying a lightsaber.”

She exhales a sharp, mocking laugh. “Does it _work_?”

“M-my Lord?”

“Take the lightsaber away from him,” she condescends, “And bring him in.”

The Acolyte’s eyes dart around anxiously.

Annihila signs in frustration. “Are you saying that you, _any of you_ , are incompetent enough to allow an unarmed man to harm me?” she asks, looking between her followers. “Or, for that matter, that the _One Sith_ is incapable of defending herself?”

A chorus of, “ _Ra_ , _Sith’ari_ ,” rises from all around.

“Good,” she says, staring her Acolyte down, “Then bring him in.”

Wrend is visibly disturbed, but bows nonetheless. “Yes, my Lord,” he mumbles to his feet, “Right away.”

“I should go,” Bri blurts, attempting to stand again.

“Oh, you’ll stay right here,” she sighs, dragging him along with her as she settles deeper into her Throne, “This will be fun.”

Annihila isn’t sure who she expected to walk into her Throne room, but it’s certainly not this. He is Human, that much she can sense, and she scoffs to be subjected to yet another Human man. A quartet of her Sovereign Protectors lead him towards the Throne, weapons drawn and trained on his head.

He has a hard face, set into a severe expression. And it’s heavily tattooed, making it difficult to ascertain his age. He’s dressed in tattered, sandy-colored robes that she can’t quite place, and a single, thick braid hangs down to his waist. His gaze travels over the Empress, and then the boy in her lap, before returning once again to her face. It’s then that she notices that his eyes are two drastically different colors: one brown, and one yellow.

They are the eyes of a man that has known true pain. A tortured torturer.

“My Lady,” he greets, and there is an accent to his Basic that is completely unfamiliar to her.

The man that stands before the Empress is an amalgam of confounding elements. He defies categorization entirely.

“I am your _Lord_ ,” she pointedly corrects, nodding to a member of her guard.

He kicks the man in the back of the legs, sending him to his knees. Bri can’t help but flinch, but she holds him tight, running her thumb along the small of his back.

“You will _kneel_!” the guard snaps, “You are in the divine presence of the _Sith’ari_ , Free of Limits! She who will lead the Sith and destroy them! She who will raise the Sith from death and—”

“—and make them stronger than before,” he finishes, looking up at her defiantly, “Yes, I know the prophecy.”

Her eyes crackle with fire for a moment, and Bri can feel the heat at her fingertips.

“You have destroyed the Sith, this is true,” he says, “But you cannot raise them alone.”

“And I suppose you’re here to tell me that it’s your help I’ll need?” she nearly mocks, “Is that it?”

“Yes.”

After a beat, Annihila pulls Bri’ahl in by the waist, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Would you like to see why I’m no longer welcome on the Senate floor, beloved?” she asks, never taking her eyes off the man.

Bri casts her a fearful glance, but she persists.

“Watch how his face changes,” she murmurs, “The longer I whisper in your ear.”

True to her prediction, Bri can see the confusion and offense beginning to spread through the man’s features as he watches them. And he can feel Niha’s lips curl into her cruel, satisfied smile against his skin.

“Armitage hates it when I do this. But it’s so very effective.”

“My _Lord_ ,” the man interrupts, “I was under the impression that the Emperor was off-world. And I had hoped we could speak alone.”

 _My hair_ , Bri realizes, _he thinks I’m Hux because of my hair_. He can’t help himself, and a short, bright laugh comes bubbling up from his chest. He claps a quick hand over his mouth, but the damage is done. Annihila doesn’t seem to care, taking his hand away again and pressing a kiss to his fingers. The man’s offense only seems to deepen as he looks around to see that the _Rizûti,_ and even a few of the Sovereign Protectors, are stifling laughter, too.

“This is not the Emperor,” Annihila condescends, still kissing Bri’s fingertips, “And I have no intention whatsoever of speaking with you alone.”

“May I ask my Lord, why not?” he challenges through gritted teeth.

She sighs, making a big show of her boredom. “Because I simply don’t find you interesting.”

“You will.”

She scowls, looking him up and down.

And then she hears him. “ _And it is quite bold of you to assume that we would require solitude, in order to speak alone_.”

The bolt of panic it sends through her chest is entirely disarming. She springs to her feet, knocking Bri’ahl off-balance. But, even in her confusion and fury, she holds onto him, keeping him from falling over. Her men react seamlessly to her, drawing their weapons and pointing them at the intruder, but she raises a hand, holding them at bay.

She’s shaking. Bri’ahl doesn’t understand what’s happened, but he’s never felt her shake before. The intruder must have done something with the Force, something beyond his comprehension. All he can do now is cling to her.

With no subtlety, no grace whatsoever, Annihila carves her way into the mind of this intruder. And what she sees there… Raw, untamed power. Bursting at the seams of him, threatening to rend him apart entirely. Anger. Deep, crushing regret. And, beneath it all, the pull of the Shadow, like a deadly undertow.

She has seen this only once before. And, in the end, that powerful, beautiful man fell to her blades.

Perhaps most disturbing is that she knows she’s only seeing what he wants her to see. This is _curated_. She’s run up against a dense, fog wall in his mind, deliberately placed, to keep her at arm’s length.

The Empress won’t stand for it; not from a Human man. Not in her Throne room, in her Temple, on her planet. She raises a hand towards him, leans in, pushes harder, and his face tightens with the effort it takes to repel her, but he does not yield. She’s shaking. Straining.

His voice is the sharp, metallic rebound of an echo inside her skull. _Do I have your attention, now?_

She releases him with a ragged cry, panting and unsatisfied. He looks up at her and smiles. A hollow, chilling smile.

“Who are you?” she demands. It’s a low, deadly voice that makes all the hairs on the back of Bri’s neck stand up.

“My name is A’Sharad Hett,” the man says, rising to his feet, “And I am not your enemy. To prove it, I have brought you a gift.”

One of her Sovereign Protectors steps forward, bearing a wooden box.

Still shaking, she nods for it to be opened. And when it is, when she comes to look upon the contents, her throat constricts.

Ten ivory horns. Seven arranged in a circle, one in the center. Two flanking the halo: one on each side.

The _Orat_ of Darth Maul.

The Empress swallows dryly, heart racing. “By what means did you acquire these?”

“I took them. From the home of the man who murdered your _Ay’vyshtal’nek_ _edalinare_.”

Her hand hovers over them so possessively, such a craving building up in her chest that she can hardly deny it. The secrets she could learn from them, the _honor_ she could bring to her valiantly fallen brother. It is so powerful, so intoxicating. And then her eyes flit to the intruder, to the veiled smile spreading across his thin lips. She nods one more to her Protector, and he closes the case, steps back.

“Talk?” she posits to the man.

“Yes.” He bows his head, palms upturned towards her. “Just talk.”

Her eyes flit across his face for a long moment, trying to feel him out. She can sense no deception from him, in this agenda. But, she realizes, if he _is_ lying, it is buried deep enough to indicate that he is truly dangerous.

“Wrend,” she snaps her fingers, “ _Ki widta_.” (My sabers.)

“No, wait, Niha,” Bri begs in a whisper, turning his back to the intruder and placing his hands on her cheeks, “No, this is a really bad idea.”

She takes his hands away, kissing his fingertips without meeting his gaze. “Go back up to the residence, _ki aki_ ,” she commands softly, but it frightens him because she’s still using that voice from before.

His eyes fly wide with panic. “B-but—”

“ _Bri’ahl_ ,” she snaps.

He flinches hard, jerking his hands from her grasp and clutching them to his chest. At that, she finally softens, taking him by the back of the neck to press kisses to his eyelids.

“I’m sorry, beloved,” she whispers.

“It’s okay.”

Her Acolyte hurries over with her blades, and she clips them to her waist. “I need you to go up to the residence, now,” she says, “I’ll meet you there shortly.”

“O-okay.” With a frantic nod, and a quick kiss on her cheek, he hurries away towards the lift.

Hett watches him depart with intense interest, and as soon as Bri’s out of earshot, he turns back to the Empress. “Who is he?” he asks casually, “His _mind_ … I can understand your interest.”

“Speak of him again, and I’ll tear out your tongue with my teeth,” she snaps.

He nods. “Of course, my Lord.”

She steps down from her Throne and beckons to the man, and together, they begin to walk through the pyramid. Six of her Sovereign Protectors follow at a discreet distance, weapons trained on the intruder.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“No one of import.”

She scoffs. “Where did you come from?”

“Tatooine.”

She pauses, looking him up and down again. And then it dawns on her. His robes. “You’re not Tusken.”

He flinches, expression hardening. “I am.”

“You’re Human.”

“My parents were Human,” he says, resuming their walk, “But when I was 16, I killed a Krayt dragon in the sacred ritual of my people, and so I will always be Tusken.”

The subject seems a sensitive one, for him. The Empress makes careful note of this apparent chink in his armor. She may need it, later. Before she can think of what to say, he speaks again.

“It might interest you to know that I was once friends with Anakin Skywalker.”

She takes him by the arm, wrenching him around to face her. “What?”

He nods. “We fought together on New Holstice, during the Clone Wars.”

“As Jedi,” she snarls, fury mounting.

“Yes,” he confirms, “We were Jedi.”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t slay you where you stand.”

He smiles. “Anakin tried to kill me once, too. He failed.”

The response baffles her. “Are you really foolish enough to threaten the _Sith’ari_?”

“No,” he reassures her, resuming his walk. “Nor am I foolish enough to believe that I could kill you, even without your guard. You’re far stronger than Darth Vader ever was. You do not fear death like he and Sidious. Or Plagueis. And it is for this reason that I do believe you are the One Sith of prophecy. I see why the Eternal chose to follow you.”

“It would seem, however, that you are foolish enough to land on Exegol and walk into the Citadel of Sith alone.”

“Would my Lord harm an unarmed man offering help?” he challenges.

She scoffs. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not that man had begun to annoy me,” she says tiredly, “And I assure you, A’Sharad Hett, that my amusement with you is a very tenuous thing.”

“I’ve been retracing your steps across the Galaxy,” he finally reveals, “From Dathomir, to Yavin 4, to Elphrona. You were a legendary figure in the border territories long before you defeated Kylo Ren.”

“And why have you been retracing my steps?” she asks pointedly, unable to deny how strangely violating it feels.

“To understand how you came to be what you are. Where you came from.”

Annihila bristles. “Everything I have I claimed for myself. I was born from nothing.”

“That’s not true,” he says, stopping to face her.

“What?”

“You are descended from the Nightsister Shelish, and her chosen Zabrak mate.”

“Folklore and rumor,” she dismisses confidently, “Shelish took no mate.”

“She did,” he confirms, “I found records in the ruins of a Zabrak camp on Dathomir. Would you like to know his name?”

She takes a step back, entirely disarmed. “What?”

“Or, for that matter, the names of your parents? I could tell you.”

She eyes him with suspicion, trying to mask the desperate thrill creeping up her spine. “And how would I know that you’re telling the truth?”

He cocks an eyebrow, like a playful challenge. “Does my Lord mean to say that she would be unable to sense such a deception?”

“How dare you,” she snaps.

“Your grandfather was named Doth’Haak,” he says, “And your parents were Ap’Flith and Zur, son of Shelish.”

Annihila gasps and clutches at her chest, trying to no avail to still the hammering in her heart.

“Your mother and father were fierce warriors, themselves,” he explains, “Cursed to have been born during peacetime. Had they lived 30 years earlier or 30 years later, I have no doubt their names and deeds would be known throughout the Galaxy.”

She nods, still lost entirely for words.

“It would seem, my Lord, that your chosen Ren title was destiny itself.”

Annihila blinks hard, taking a step back from him. “Was I born on Dathomir?” she says, her tone perhaps more demanding than she’d intended, “Do you know?”

He nods. “Yes. Born during a raid that claimed the lives of your parents. Your father died defending the village, and your mother was killed outright by the invaders. The victors cut you from the corpse when they realized you were still moving inside her. Had you been male, they’d have left you to die.”

She brings a hand to her mouth, shaking her head in frantic silence.

“After that, as you know, you were reluctantly cared for by the rival clan. They gave you a cruel name, and never told you the truth of your parentage. Why do you think you have no _Jato_?”

 _Because I was a war trophy_ , she realizes. _Never one of them, to begin with._

It can’t be true. She flays his mind open, clawing him apart in her desperate need to find some indication of deceit. This stranger is powerful, yes. But so is she. _It can’t be true, it_ can’t _be_. But no matter how deep she digs, she can find no sign of deception.

What he has said is true. Or, at least, he does genuinely believe it to be.

Everything that Annihila has ever understood about herself, everything she has ever held true in her heart, suddenly cracks, and shatters. It lays her out in a crushing, glassy wave, shredding her apart.

_Ap’Nul, corpse-born._

But, all at once, the bizarre reality of the circumstances springs to the forefront of her mind. There is something hidden in the shadow of this man, something occult and sinister. And she nearly felt herself tumbling into his trap.

“What do you want, A’Sharad Hett?” she asks, eyeing him warily, “This is no simple visit, no mere courtesy paid to your Empress. Why have you come here?”

He seems to consider the question for a moment before responding. “You are powerful, yes,” he says in a low voice, “But in your victory, you have become complacent. Wearing gowns and jewels, sitting on your Throne with your _dhasias drida_ , decorating your palaces. This is not the way of the Sith.”

Annihila bristles, drawing herself up to her full height. “What did you just say to me?”

“They say that, during the Corellian uprising, you pulled a man’s heart from his chest with your bare hand. Is this true?”

“Yes,” she snaps, “And I’ll do it again, if the mood takes me.”

“You’re a warrior,” he reminds her, “Perhaps the most fearsome warrior yet born. But without anger, without pain, your growth has stunted. I have come to break you from your complacency, Darth Annihila, because your work is not yet complete. No matter what your Emperor may want you to believe.”

Annihila’s hand tighten instinctively into fists.

“He is Force-null,” Hett continues, “He will never understand our ways. He has his victory, and so he would see you domesticated. But one cannot tame a _devsta’rak_.”

She scowls, baring her pointed teeth. “My amusement with you wears thin, Tusken.”

“What are you doing on Exegol?” he asks, and the seeming non-sequitur catches her off-guard.

“What?”

“You belong on Korriban, in the seat of our forbearers.”

“ _’Our’_?”

He nods serenely. “A wise leader would be raising a new Sith Order.”

“I _am_ the Sith Order,” she snarls, lunging in so close that her nose nearly touches his. “And so, the Sith Order is what _I_ say it is. No longer shall I strike from shadow, but _rule_! There will be no Rule of Two, no Masters and Apprentices. I am _eternal_.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. “Eternal. And how long do you think you can make your eternity last?”

She exhales sharply, taking a step back from him.

“Are you so fearless in the face of death because you believe that you will live forever?” he continues, “You are not wrong to covet that secret. I, too, have sought to prolong my own life. But in its extreme, this leads to narcissism. A lack of focus.”

Annihila rankles. “You _dare_ quote the word of Darth Bane to _me_?”

The stranger does not relent. “To be a Sith Lord is to outthink your enemies and to plan for any eventuality. The proper apprentice will ensure that the Sith endure. No matter what fate may come upon your head.”

A sudden pang of fear radiates out from the pit of her stomach. That was a _threat_. And if he has the power to land here unnoticed, the power to read her thoughts, then… She can hear her heart thumping in her ears, feel the heat rising to her chest.

“Get off of my planet,” she commands.

Her guard respond immediately, sprinting up to take him by the shoulders. He submits without a struggle, allowing them to drag him away. Satisfied, the Empress turns on her heel, and strides towards the lift to her residence.

“I want TIEs escorting his ship out of our system” she commands over her shoulder, “If he lingers, shoot him out of the sky.”

“Yes, _ri Sith’ari_.”

“And I want to know how he flew under our radars.”

“I figured out how he flew under your radars,” Bri blurts the second she walks through the door. He’s standing behind the Emperor’s console (which he had, again, hacked into), humming with a blend of pride and anxiety.

Annihila blinks for a moment, trying to re-ground herself. “You… What?”

“Y-yeah, he’s flying a _Corvette_ -class ship with a— A _really_ old cloaking device, Stygium-based, I think, and your surface sensors aren’t calibrated to detect it. Since, um… Since it’s so old.” He fidgets a little, eyes downcast, “W-which is probably, you know, exactly what he was banking on. The _Supremacy_ picked him up, when he went by, but then th-the best I can tell, he changed trajectory as a feint, and then used the planet as a shield from their sensors until he broke atmos. So.”

 _Organic Securities Droid_ , she thinks, and her heart breaks. She inhales deeply, exhales slowly. Some of the tension lifts from her shoulders, but her hands are still shaking. “Bri—”

“It won’t be a hard fix,” he blurts, “Just time consuming, probably, and I won’t be able to do it all myself, I’d need—”

“Bri’ahl,” she interrupts softly.

His eyes flit up to hers for a moment, and then back down again. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you like that.”

“O-oh. That’s okay.” His tone is conversational, but his body language tells a very different story. And he can hide nothing from her.

“It’s not,” she breathes, stepping over to him. “Look at me.” She takes his face in her hands, gently coaxing him up to look at her. With a gentle finger, she drags some of the rust from beneath his eyes. Those too-big, too-blue eyes, mechanical irises all but swallowing up his sclera. “I’m sorry,” she implores. “I simply feared for your safety.”

He nods. “I know. It’s okay.”

She pulls him into her, laying her lips so sweetly against his. He whimpers, and she can feel him soften a little.

“W-what did that guy want?” he asks, resting his cheek against her shoulder.

Her face twitches with latent fury. “It’s not important.”

“Did he ever say anything about where he got that eye?”

Annihila pulls back to look at him. “What?”

“W-well, I mean…” he shrugs awkwardly, “The yellow one is a Yuuzhan Vong implant, so I just wondered where he got it from…”

A fresh pang of dread begins snaking its way between her ribs. “Are you sure?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Are you _sure_?” She shakes him lightly by the shoulders. “How can you tell?”

He bristles, answering quickly. “The b-black rays coming out from the edge of his iris, and the— That double-ringed pupil. That’s, uh… It’s a pretty distinctive design. For, you know. Eyes.”

Her brow furrows in disbelief. “When were you close enough to see that?”

“Um…” he shrugs, pointing sheepishly at his own cybernetics. “You know… Th-the whole time, I guess.” His pupils expand and contract a few times as if in explanation.

She raises a hand to her lips, gaze wandering. The Yuuzhan Vong. That infallible force from beyond the edges of her Galaxy, entirely shrouded to her. Undetectable by the Force, bane of Sith and Jedi alike. They are, perhaps, the only adversary that she really, truly fears. And for good reason.

This casts the encounter in an entirely new light. And it could account for how shrouded Hett had seemed, to her. _Vong implants…_

“Niha?” Bri asks tentatively.

“I’m sorry.” Annihila shakes her head, pulling him back in against her chest. “ _Dhasias drida_ , you’re brilliant. Beautiful and brilliant. Thank you.”

He casts her a guilty sort of smile, color rising to his cheeks. “Do, um—Do you maybe want me to re-calibrate the surface sensors?” he offers earnestly. “I could.”

“I’ll have the _Supremacy_ send a team down,” she dismisses, “That’s not why you’re here, beloved.”

“No, but I want to,” he blurts, perhaps more quickly and loudly than he’d intended. This is _better_ than fooling around with her box of alien tech, and he didn’t think there could possibly _be_ anything better than that. At the sight of her amused smile, he adds a soft-spoken, “I-I’ll need help with the radar stuff, though.”

“Whatever you require, my sweet, you shall have it.”

All at once, his face lights up with a broad smile. “Actually, um, there is, like, a guy who could come and help,” he announces, “A-and he’s in orbit, right now.”

Two hours later, Matthew Wyx steps off the transport ship, clutching his tool case in one hand and Bri’s in the other. It doesn’t quite seem real to him, yet: where he is and what he’s doing. Or, for that matter, who it was that asked him to come down. But there he is, the Imperial Consort himself, waving at Matt from the base of the pyramid with a wide smile on his face. He’s changed out of his red gown, which makes Matt a little sad, but he understands. They have real work to do. And there’s nothing he enjoys more than working with Bri’ahl.

Matt jumps and flinches with every pop of lightening overhead, sprinting anxiously for cover. Perhaps most surreal of all is that Bri isn’t jumping or flinching, not even a little bit. Like he feels completely at home in this creepy place.

“Hi!” Bri greets brightly, taking his tool case, “What do you think?”

Matt’s reply is clipped. “Weird.”

Bri laughs softly. “You get used to it. Eventually. Come on, let’s go inside.”

Matt can hardly contain the look of amazement on his face as they enter the cavernous pyramid. Massive. Ancient. Terrifying. Countless black-robed Sith Acolytes and red-draped Sovereign Protectors bow their heads respectfully as they pass, and he realizes they’re bowing to _Bri_. And he just keeps walking, like it’s _nothing_.

Matt wonders where the Empress is. If he’ll get to see her.

“Thanks for coming down,” Bri says conversationally, leading him over to a downward-sloping staircase in the corner, “There’s no way I could’ve done this on my own, and Niha was like, ‘Hey, who’s the best radar technician in my Empire?’ and I told her I had just the man for the job.”

Matt’s face burns a little from the compliment, and he clears his throat awkwardly. “What are we doing?”

“We need to re-calibrate the surface sensors to pick up small, Stygium crystal-cloaked ships,” he explains, beginning to descend the dark, stone staircase.

Matt thinks hard for a moment. “Magnetic detection would be the best way to do it.”

Bri beams. “Yeah, that’s what I figure, too.”

“What size of ship?”

“ _Corvette_ -class or larger.”

“You’re gonna get a lot of false positives,” he says flatly.

“I know. She says that’s okay.”

“It shouldn’t be hard, though,” he quickly adds, “Magnetic is easy.”

“Yeah, it should go pretty quick, with the two of us on the job.” He casts his friend a warm smile, over his shoulder, and Matt makes his best effort to return it in earnest. But smiling has never come naturally to him, and he’s afraid he looks more like he’s leering.

The control room is surreal. It’s an underground cavern, carved from black stone, and lined with bright screens and blinking server trees. Sleek modernity, jammed into this ancient, almost sacred-feeling place. Sort of like the Emperor and Empress themselves, he thinks, amused by the comparison.

They settle in, and begin to work. Bri has to squeeze into an open compartment in the floor to access the console he needs, and Matt laughs because his knees are all the way up by his ears. They fall seamlessly into the rhythm of each other. They’ve always been a good team, knowing just what the other needs before he can even say it aloud.

“Hey, why are we doing this?” Matt suddenly asks.

Bri looks up from his screen, eyes taking a moment to re-focus. “Huh? Oh, um… I don’t actually know if I’m allowed to tell you.”

“What? Why not?”

“It, um… It might actually be, like… An Imperial secret?”

“Oh.” Brow furrowed, Matt returns to his radar controls.

Bri flicks a worried glance up at him before settling back into his own work. “Are we good to run the system reboot?”

“Yeah, just…” His large fingers struggle frustratingly with the tiny wires, “This calcinator, give me one… Second… _There_. Okay go.”

“Okay, initiating re-boot.”

Matt watches as his companion studies the screen with rapt attention, eyes flicking here and there as he absorbs the lines and lines of code appearing before him. And, inwardly, his heart breaks.

When Matt looks at Bri’ahl, he feels a dissonance between the two halves of himself. The violent, angry part of him wants to take those narrow little wrists in his hands, and yank him around, because he could, if he wanted to. He’s big and strong, and Bri seems like the only one who’s ever been really intimidated by him. His weird jumpiness might annoy most people, but Matt can’t help but take it as a kind of fucked-up compliment. He knows he’s impressive, and yet he’s so rarely shown the kind of respect he _knows_ he deserves. (The respect that, say, Kylo Ren received.) But Bri respects him. And Matt could use that hurt him, if he wanted to, and it wouldn’t even be hard. But _NO_ , he would never, _ever_ do that, no matter how badly he wanted to. Because that would scare him, and he really doesn’t want Bri to be scared, ever, ever, _ever_.

Because there’s another side of Matt, one he’s not really sure what to name. And that part of him wants to use every muscle in his big, awkward body, every ounce of his unyielding will, every rising decibel of his booming voice to _Keep Bri’ahl Safe_. He imagines holding him so gently in his arms, _so gently_ , and he’s broad enough that he’d be able shield him completely from all the people that might be looking at him, because he _knows_ how Bri hates people looking at him.

He wonders if the Empress treats him like that, like how he deserves. Or if she scares him, like she scares everyone else. Matt would _never_ scare him. Matt would whisper only the sweetest words into the shell of his beloved’s ear, and trail his fingertips through his hair like he had when he’d helped with the braids. He hopes Bri always needs help with his braids.

“Hey, that looks like we did it!”

Startled, Matt jumps to his feet, head clanging hard against a low-hanging console. “Ow, dammit,” he swears, stomping his foot. “ _Shitfuck_.”

“A-are you okay?”

“Dammit, dammit, _dammit_!”

Bri’s eyes widen, and he cringes away in familiar anticipation. He doesn’t want Matt to get angry, not in here. He could destroy the entire room without much effort, all of the servers and everything, and _then_ where would they be?

“M-Mattie?”

The nickname feels like a knife in his heart. He sighs deeply, doing his best to calm down for Bri’ahl’s sake. _Don’t scare him. Ever, ever_ , ever. 

“I need to access the radar array at the top of the pyramid,” Matt suddenly announces, eyes downcast as he rubs at the back of his head. “To… Check. Because there’s a problem…” he points vaguely towards his screen, “Over here.”

Bri’s brows shoot up in surprise, and he cranes his neck to see what Matt’s seeing. His eyes click, pupils dilating as he zooms in to scan over the screen. “Really? ‘Cause it looks like we should be able to do the rest from in here—”

Chagrined, Matt turns the screen away so his companion can’t see it. “Yes, really.” _No, not really_.

“O-okay. Um… You’ll have to take the big lift up to the residence floor, I think. I can show you.”

He turns briskly for the door. “No, that’s okay.”

“Wait—” Bri scrambles for a moment, trying to extricate himself from the compartment in the floor. “H-hang on, actually, I think I better come with you, ‘cause Niha doesn’t know who you are, and she might get—”

“I’ll be fine.” He grimaces immediately at his tone, knowing it was probably too harsh.

“O-oh. Okay.” Defeated, Bri sinks back into place before his screen. “But bring a comm with you, though, ‘cause we’ll need to talk.”

Matt looks around for a moment before snatching a set of earpieces from an open toolbox. He tosses one over to Bri, which he nearly drops, and with that, he’s gone.

“Hi. I’m Matt,” he greets flatly, pointing awkwardly at himself. “Radar Technician.”

The Empress stands in the doorway to her residence, mouth slightly agape as she takes in the baffling sight. Matt has never seen her this close in person, before, not since she stopped wearing the mask, and that was more than a decade ago. She’s haunting. With her knife-blade cheekbones, and the silver eyes of a mourner. Her mouth that suggests both tenderness and cruelty.

And her _legs_. He’ll never get used to her legs. His eyes flit down to them, and then back up again.

“And?” she presses.

He jumps at the sound of her voice, gaze drifting up and away, over her head. “Um… Bri’ahl sent me. I need to check the settings on the radar array up here.”

Bri, listening anxiously through the comms, suddenly shouts, “ _Hi, Niha!”_

Matt swears, tearing the earpiece out and holding it at arm’s length.

_“He won’t be very long, I promise!”_

For a moment, she looks as though she’s going to smile. But then she glances up at Matt, again, and the expression is gone, her face twitching with annoyance. Wordlessly, she turns and retreats back into the residence, leaving the door open. She reclines on her side on the couch, she returns to her Sith text.

Tight-lipped, Matt stuffs the earpiece back in and makes his way across the room to the wall panel by the balcony. He opens it, casting a quick glance in the Empress’ direction. She’s not looking.

_Am I really gonna do this?_

_Yeah. Yeah, I am._

He takes a handful of the wires and circuits, and _yanks_.

Annihila rolls her eyes.

 _“Whoa, I just lost the pyramid sensors,”_ Bri remarks, _“What happened?”_

“Nothing,” he hisses, “I’m just… Running a reboot. To… Calibrate the… Um, software.”

Splicing wires back together is mindless work, Matt could do it with his eyes closed. So, he takes the opportunity to look around the room.

He studies the Empress first, reclined on the couch. She’s the kind of woman who _knows_ how beautiful she is, he thinks. Knows, and does not care. That effortless confidence. That unlimited power. The murderer of Kylo Ren. His throat tightens at the thought.

She shifts, and his eyes flit away quickly and defensively. A million questions are all building up behind his clenched jaw. _What was Kylo Ren like when you were kids? Was he scared, when you killed him? Did he beg? Is it true you can make yourself invisible? Did you really pull a guy’s heart out, when he tried to kill Hux? Can Hux really read people’s minds, now, because you’ve, like…_ Given him _the Force?_

_Do you kiss Bri’ahl’s eyes, when he’s falling asleep?_

His gaze comes to rest on a dark plinth against the far wall, housing what seems to be a dish of ashes. Resting in the center are the gleaming, curved hilts of her blades.

He points. “Are those your lightsabers?”

Bri panics. _“Matt, what are you doing?”_

She turns to him, brow knitted, eyes searching across his face.

He looks away from her, off into the corner of the room. “Are those the lightsabers that you killed Kylo Ren with?”

“ _Matt_!”

The air seems to bend and warp around him. He flinches as his ears pop.

“Bri’ahl would probably cry,” she says calmly, turning a page in her book. “If I were forced to kill you.”

Matt swallows hard.

“Are you _trying_ to make Bri’ahl cry?”

He turns away at once, face burning as he busies himself with his wires.

_“Y-you can’t talk to her like that, Mattie, she doesn’t know you! She’ll get really mad!”_

He doesn’t reply. Sweat is starting to bead on his forehead from the stress and the strain of self-control. Maybe Bri was right, maybe coming up here was a bad idea. Because Matt can feel the danger ebbing across the room, like he’s caged in with a deadly, unpredictable animal. And he _knows_ that he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.

“I heard, um— Is it true that you wear Kylo Ren’s Kyber crystal around your neck when you go into battle? Is it really cracked, like people say?”

 _“Matt!! Stop f-fucking talking about Kylo Ren! She really,_ really _doesn’t like it!!”_

All at once, it feels like there’s an invisible hand clapped around his jaw, forcing it closed again. He starts in surprise, glancing around in a panic, only to find that she’s still across the room, still reclined on the couch, flipping idly through her tome.

_Oh kriff, is she using the Force on me?_

And then the invisible hand wrenches his head back towards the wall panel, holding it there.

He makes short work of the rest of the wires; struggling, now, against shaking hands. He can _feel_ her, back there. Feel her watching him, but not with her eyes. Even worse, he knows that she _wants_ him to feel her.

As soon as he’s done, he makes a big production of slamming the panel shut, so the Empress can hear it.

She winces. “Are you quite finished?”

“Yes.”

“’Yes, _my Lord’_ ,” she pointedly corrects.

“Yes, my Lord.” He bends to gather up his tools, accidentally kicking a set of pliers across the room in his haste. “Shit. Sorry. Sorry, _my Lord_.”

Annihila rolls her eyes, watching as he scrambles around. And then finally, _finally_ , he’s on his way back towards the door.

But he stops. Of course, he stops. And, just as she’s weighing choking him to death against giving him an intimate look at the lightsabers that killed Kylo Ren, he reaches up and removes his earpiece. Shoves it into his pocket. And then he turns to face her, eyes downcast.

“What, now?” she demands.

“Please be nice to Bri,” he mumbles.

She visibly flinches. “What did you just say to me?”

“I just…” Heat rises to his face, and he shrinks from her as he stammers. “Please be nice to Bri’ahl, my Lord. He deserves… Nice stuff.”

The _arrogance_. The sheer, unbridled _stupidity_ , to say something like that to her. God damn what Bri’ahl will think, this is an offense that cannot go unpunished. Fuming, the Sith’ari rises to stand. She reaches out, flays his mind open. Combing theough it is an effortless affair, as simple an act as flipping through the pages of her book.

Anger. Hunger. A child torn from his parents’ arms and sold to the First Order. A young, combative man with a red-stained service record: too insubordinate for combat, too big for a cockpit. No discernable leadership skills. Poor communicator. Prone to violence and lying. _Does not play well with others._ And yet… And yet… There’s a deep, consuming, painful need to prove himself. Deeper still he hides his empathy. Aching, distracting empathy. To the point that it’s self-destructive.

And, in the blink of an eye, the truth is laid plain. Stark, startling, and undeniable.

“You love him,” she voices aloud.

His face reddens even further. “I— I don’t—"

“Yes, you do,” she says, matter-of-factly. “And I understand. He’s an easy one to love.”

He fidgets a little. “Um…”

“Don’t stop,” she impulsively commands, her tongue moving almost automatically. Guided by some power beyond her.

“What?”

“Don’t ever stop. Don’t ever leave him. _Ever_. He deserves so much more than what little I have left to give.”

Matt blinks in surprise. “Oh… Um… Okay.”

Annihila turns away, striding for the balcony. “Now get out of my Temple, before I kill you.”

“Why did you _do_ that?” Bri demands, beating his fists against Matt’s chest, “That was really stupid, Mattie, she could’ve killed you!”

“She didn’t kill me,” he dismisses, taking the blows without so much as a sway or a wince. “Settle down.”

“N-no, _you_ settle down!”

“No,” Matt takes him by the wrists, holding him still. “ _You_ settle down.”

Bri looks up at him, an uncertain expression on his face, and Matt’s grip tightens despite himself. _No, no, no!_ He releases him at once, and Bri takes a stumbling step back.

“Why did you turn your comms off?” he demands, rubbing at his wrists, “Wh-what did you say to her?”

“I told her that she’d better be nice to you, or else.” That’s a lie, and telling it in his usual, automatic way tugs uncomfortably at his conscience. He knows the stupid lies are a big part of the reason why no one likes him.

“Oh, yeah? Or _what_?”

He has no choice but to double down. “ _Or else.”_

“You didn’t say that,” Bri dismisses.

He shrugs, going red. “I sort of did.”

“ _Matt_!”

“You hate yourself so loudly,” he suddenly blurts, eyes downcast.

Bri withdraws slightly, hands raised in premature defense. “Wh-what?”

“You just… You hate yourself at the top of your lungs. It’s always ‘sorry’ this, and ‘just ignore me’ and ‘I don’t want to be annoying.’ Like you have to beat everyone else to the punch, because… Like… You think _you’re_ the punching bag. Like maybe if you hate yourself first, and hate yourself the loudest, then nobody will bother even trying to hurt you.”

Bri’s brow lifts slowly, his pupils _click-clicking_ in their camera-shutter way.

“You cover your ears and close your eyes and curl up so tight that you never have to feel how mean people can be, but…” His voice fades, the tips of his ears beginning to burn.

“B-but what?” he asks, taking a tentative step towards him. “Matt, what?”

“But it means that you never hear their love, either,” he mumbles, “You just scream so much hatred over it, you drown it out, so you never get to hear any of it.”

Bri exhales a soft, “Oh,” and it feels a little like someone has turned the lights up. But they can’t have, because the pyramid is still dark. “Um…” he mumbles, “I mean… I hear it from Niha. She sort of, um… I guess she sort of forced me to listen. She’s the first person who ever did that.”

“Niha,” Matt murmurs, and his throat tightens as he turns away. “Yeah.”

When Bri finally returns to the residence, the Empress is on the balcony. She stands against the balustrade, with her eyes closed and her face lifted to the high wind.

“I-I’m sorry about him, Nih,” he tentatively offers, stepping up behind her. His hands wring at his baggy, green technician’s jumpsuit. “H-he’s a good guy, but he’s— Um, he’s just got a really big mouth. It gets him into trouble, a lot, up on the ship.”

“He loves you with his whole heart,” she says, her back still turned.

“Oh…” Bri’s face reddens. “Yeah, I know. I think he, um… I think he kind of just, like… Told me that.”

“Keep him close,” she commands gently, “I sense that you’ll come to need each other, before the end.”

“Okay,” he concedes, “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Draw from his strength,” she murmurs, “As he will draw from your gentleness.”

Bri nods. “Okay.” He doesn’t understand, not quite. But he trusts her. Like he’s never trusted anyone else, all his life. And if she says to trust Matt…

 _Wait, was that a prophecy? Like… A real, Sith prophecy? About_ me _?_

Her head slumps forward into her hands, and for a moment, Bri is certain that she’s about to start crying. And that terrifies him, because he realizes that he has absolutely _no idea whatsoever_ how to comfort the Empress of the Entire Galaxy. This is a job for Hux, and he is _Definitely Not Hux._

Is it him? Is it his fault? Was he Bad and Annoying? Did he say too much, or not enough?

“Um…” he murmurs, taking a tentative step back, “I’ll go back to the ship, okay? ‘Cause I don’t really think I’m h-helping, being here, so I’ll just... Get out of your hair.”

And then he hears her voice, so softly that he can’t be sure if she’s speaking aloud, or sending the words straight into his head.

 _“Please don’t leave me here alone_.”

The Emperor is cold. He looks up to find that there’s snow falling on the his face, and his fingers are numb as he reaches up to brush it from his hair. A forest canopy knits together overhead, a distant tangle of dark branches, with only the faintest light glimmering through. It’s like a pane of stained glass, encasing him. Trapping him. When he looks down at his hands, they’re sharp like twisted copper wire, and pools of melted snow are gathering in his palms. He worries vaguely that he’ll rust.

There’s a noise, far away. He turns to look and something crashes in the distance, obscured by snow-laden trees. A glimmer of fire, of furious red, streaks across the darkness. Something fractures and falls away. He reaches out, hoping to draw it closer, so he can inspect and identify it, but Annihila is beside him, clutching at his wrists.

“Don't look,” she begs. Her hands are on his face, now, turning him away.

“I have to,” he says, trying to crane past her, “It's important.”

She takes his face in her hands and her eyes are not their shining silver, but entirely black. Depthless voids, weeping golden tears.

And then she shifts, cups his skull in her palm and lays him on the snow-covered ground. Her hair cascades over them in wild tangles. There are stars glimmering in the pitch-black curtain of hair. But when he reaches out to touch them, they skitter away from his fingertips.

“Listen to me,” she implores, “Just listen to my voice.”

Again, in the distance, there can be heard the low rumble of the earth rending apart. Something sparks at the edge of his vision. Something red and painful, drawing nearer.

“Just look at me, now, Armitage.” Her tears are falling on his face, now. Searing drops of gold, wending their way through the hollows of his cheeks to fall, hissing, to the snow. “I love you. This is only a moment.”

He jerks from sleep with a panic, drenched in sweat.

It takes the Emperor a moment to recall where he is. But then he sees the bright threads of speeder traffic outside, warped and jumping across the surface of the stained-glass window, and he remembers.

Coruscant. Alone.

Something isn’t right.

Lightyears away, the Empress lies awake. Bri is long gone, of course, cradled against her chest with his fingers wound through her hair. (He’s only been _pretending_ to be asleep, on the sofa earlier, because there’s nothing he likes better than when Niha lifts him up and carries him to bed. She knows it as well as he does.)

But sleep has eluded the _Sith’ari_ entirely. She’s been dwelling obsessively on all of Hett’s thinly veiled threats, letting his criticism of her rule worm its way into her heart. She knows that this was surely his intention, to infect her mind this way; plant the seed of his malcontent so deep that she’ll never be rid of him, no matter what she does. She _knows_ it’s what he wants.

But she can’t stop thinking about the Yuuzhan Vong. There could be six of them in the room, right now, and she wouldn’t know until she was dead.

She can’t stop thinking about the baby that was carved from its mother’s corpse.

She should’ve killed that A’Sharad Hett, then and there.

And then the holoprojector beside the bed begins to chime.

The Empress delicately extricates herself from Bri’s arms. He murmurs something in his sleep, trying to cling to her, but she delicately pries his hands away, kissing him on the cheek. She slips her dressing gown over her shoulders, snatches up the chiming holoprojector, and retreats silently into the sitting room. It’s an eerily still night, on her planet. No lightning, just a low, churning wind. The fire is still burning in the hearth, casting a shaft of warmth and light across the room. She settles into the sofa, places the projector on the armrest, and answers.

The figure of her equally sleepless-looking husband flickers to life before her, in full, beautiful color. He seems to be lying in bed in their palace on Coruscant. And, despite herself, despite the hypocrisy of it, she can’t help but feel a pang of relief to see that he’s alone.

“Heart of my heart,” she greets softly, “What are you doing awake at this hour?”

“Are you alright?” he asks at once.

She blinks in confusion. “What?”

He sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t know, just… Just a feeling I couldn’t shake. I’m sorry, I’ll let you sleep.”

“No,” she’s quick to interject, unable to deny the sudden tightness in her chest, “No, my love, you’re right, there’s been…” She stammers for a moment, unsure of how to begin.

But again, he surprises her. “A… A visitor,” he says distantly. “Unwelcome.”

She exhales sharply, entirely awestruck. “Yes.”

“Tell me everything.”

It’s a command, yes. But in his voice, she finds only comfort. Relief, like he’s unburdened her simply by saying it. The story pours out of her in a wave she can’t stop, and as it does, she cannot deny the way her chest seems to lighten. It shouldn’t have scared her so much, but it did. It proved to her that she is, perhaps, not as infallible as she’d come to believe. It shattered the idea she has of herself, the image she’s worked so tirelessly to construct. Right now, she needs her husband. This man who knows her better than she knows herself. She needs his guidance, his strength. His love.

Moments like these come so rarely, for them; these flickers of time when he feels as though she really and truly _needs_ him. It’s so often the opposite, he thinks.

But there was a period, early in their reign, when Hux was genuinely afraid that he would lose her. She was like an antenna, back then, picking up frequencies from every single being in the Galaxy at once. All of their pain, all of their fear and fury and petty, daily discomforts, mainlined right into her brain. And as their Empire grew, so too did her agony. She told him, once, that it felt like everyone in the Galaxy could touch her. Like they were all jamming shards of glass in her head. It was a deafening roar that she couldn’t drown out, couldn’t ignore.

He was certain she’d break beneath the pressure. Go mad, take her own life, just to end the noise. She didn’t sleep, didn’t eat. Barely spoke. She was a raw nerve, flayed open to everything and everyone. And he felt so helpless. How do you fix a thing that you cannot sense? How do you assuage a pain that you’ll never understand, never feel? All he could do was be near to her. He cancelled meetings and tours and left it all to Dryden to handle, and for weeks, he stayed by her side. And when he was near, it seemed to… Quiet. Perhaps it’s narcissistic of him to think, but it’s true. His presence kept her grounded, if only by a small measure. And, eventually, she learned to ignore it. Close off from the Galaxy, when such exposure was of no use.

He had been there for her, then. He’s not there, now.

He hasn’t been there like that for a long, long time.

It hurts. It hurts, because she gives him so much, _so much_ , and he knows it’s like she’s cutting off pieces of herself and surrendering them for him to covet and keep. Whittling herself down, little by little, to become what he needed her to be.

Why she does it, he can’t say. The woman he met in the hanger of the _Finalizer_ would never. She’d have killed him first, before making any concession. But she’s different, now, and so is he. It can only be that she really and truly loves him. And now, in this lonely moment when she’s so lost and so frightened, he’s halfway across the Galaxy.

No sooner has she paused to breathe, Hux announces, “I’m coming back.” He picks up the holoprojector and begins to move around the room, gathering up his clothes.

“No,” she swiftly negates, “Don’t be ridiculous, Armitage, you stay right where you are!”

“Then you come to me!”

“We need to carry on as planned.”

He groans. “Why? I _know_ you’re more than capable of dispatching a single intruder, but I _detest_ the thought of you, out there all alone—”

“Heart of my heart, this may be an attempt to draw us into a trap. Or to see how we react when threatened.”

He rubs at his temples, frustrated. “What are you talking about, Annihila?” _Let me be a_ comfort _, goddamn you. Let me be a_ husband _, for once._

She hesitates for a moment, mouth snapping shut. To tell him may be needlessly alarmist.

“ _Ani_.”

“His left eye is a Yuuzhan Vong implant.”

 _And_ there _it is,_ he thinks. _The other shoe has dropped, like an Electro-Proton bomb._ And now, he not only understands her fear, but shares in it. “How do you know?” he asks, his tone more demanding than he’d intended. Betraying his panic.

She waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about that, just trust me that I know. And _you_ know that we cannot afford to risk open war with the Yuuzhan Vong, not now.”

“You could give us _one million years_ , and we would never be ready to face the Vong.” He rubs at his forehead, thinking hard. “Damn.” He slams a fist against the wall beside him. “ _Damn_!”

It makes her start in surprise. He’s never been one for physical outbursts. But perhaps it’s her, she realizes; bleeding into him, blurring the lines between them until the boundary exists no more.

“We’ve ruled all but unchallenged for ten years, my love,” she reminds him, “This was bound to happen. We need to focus, now, on how we respond.”

“Well,” he snarls, uncharacteristically bleak and sarcastic, “I suppose ten years is as good a run as any. Sidious had 23, of course. Why, even the First Order limped along for a staggering 13! But—”

“Armitage,” she scolds, baffled by this defeatist attitude. She has never known him to be a fearful man, and she can’t fathom why he’s behaving this way, now. But a glimpse into his mind shows her that it is not fear for his Empire, causing him this distress. It’s fear for her. She can feel the panic building in his chest at the thought of losing her. And that is, perhaps, even more disarming.

“We shouldn’t go to Cantonica,” he announces, more out of a need to make some sort of a decision for them than anything. He needs control. “We should rendezvous somewhere else, instead, and regroup. Siskeen, maybe. Or Anaxes.” Fortress worlds. Places where he can lock them away until they know what to do. Places where they can _plan_.

“We _should_ go to Cantonica,” she insists, as much as it sickens her, “We need what they have, now more than ever. And to do our suppliers the discourtesy of sending an envoy or ambassador in our place would be to lose their support entirely. You _know_ how they are.”

There’s something stirring in her that he hasn’t sensed in years. She feels stifled, in her temple. Caged in and suddenly bloodthirsty. And she’s made her plan, he realizes. She wants to ready for war, and of _course_ she does. She’s remembered that she’s a warrior, and she’ll defend to the death all that’s theirs. _Devsta’rak’i._

“Dammit,” he sighs, rubbing at his temples, “Dammit all, Annihila, I don’t like this. I don’t like having our hand forced. Having to _guess_.”

“Nor do I, my love.”

“Were they able to determine how he slipped past the radars, at least?” he asks, desperate for some shred of certainty they can cling to.

“Yes,” she nods, “Bri’ahl had it cracked before Hett had even left the planet, and he fixed it right away.”

Hux scoffs. “Good. That’s what I bought him for in the first place, as you may recall.”

“Armitage,” she scolds, aghast.

He snarls in frustration, laying back down in his bed. _He_ should be the one there with her, now. Protecting her. Not some boy who’d hide behind her skirts at the first sign of trouble. But that line of thinking tugs uncomfortably at his self-awareness, because he knows full well that she’s a far greater warrior than he could ever hope to be. She doesn’t need his protection. Or anyone’s, for that matter.

“I don’t like this, Ani,” he whispers, childish and indignant.

She casts him a kind of bitter smile, reaching out to ghost her fingertip along the shimmering edge of the holo. “Nor do I. But we do what we must.”

“We’ll survive this,” he says, as much for his own benefit as it is hers.

“Of course, we will, my Starkiller. We’ve survived worse.”

He blinks for a moment, and then looks to her with eyes that are wide and imploring. “Have we?”


	7. Chapter 7

Four days later, the Emperor waits with anxious anticipation on the docks of Canto Bight. His entire body seems electric, and stifled beneath his white and gold uniform. He taps his foot until his calf aches, and then switches sides to start over. He doesn’t know what to do with his arms as he watches the sky, shifting back and forth between clasping them behind his back and crossing them over his chest.

He knows his guards can sense it, and he knows he’s probably worrying them with all of his anxious fidgeting. He wants to turn around and bark some meaningless order at them, remind them to straighten up and sit still, even though he knows full well they’re lining the dock like perfect statues.

When Annihila’s transport ship finally appears on the horizon, the Emperor breathes a shuddering sigh of relief. The red-draped Sovereign Protectors snap to parade salute as her ship lands, and then the door opens. She descends the ramp with long, confident strides of her cybernetic legs, and the first thing he notices is that she’s painted her face. A stripe across her eyes, and three lines down her chin, like she’s going into battle. But in place of her typical red, the paint is gold. Because this is _his_ battlefield, he realizes: the glittering world of political double-speak, and skilled diplomacy. His combat theaters take the form of lavish meeting rooms and long dining tables; his battles are won and lost over cigars during graceful, ruthless negotiation with arms dealers, cloners, and shipbuilders.

This is his campaign, and she’s come to fight by his side. And now, instead of armor, she’s wearing one of the gowns he loves so much. The plunging neckline nearly reaches her navel, and a thick tangle of gold chains is strung between her left epaulette and right hip. Sleeveless. He can see the rings tattooed on her right arm. Her curved-hilt sabers hang from her waist, ever-present.

The sabers that won them this Empire.

She’s beautiful. Pale skin glowing against the deep black of her dress, the edges of her raven hair set alight in the orange glow of the setting sun. A geometric half-wreath glitters on her temples. One of his own, he realizes, and that makes him smile.

He can’t fight the impulse. As she approaches, he falls to one knee before her, head bowed respectfully. “My Liege Lady.”

“Stop,” she scolds playfully, coaxing him back to his feet, “My Emperor bows to no one.”

He wraps her arms around her back and his lips meet hers; sweetly, hungrily.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” he whispers, resting his forehead against hers. It seems such a foreign admission, so strangely vulnerable, but he leans into it, letting it wash over him and absolve him.

“I’m here, my darling,” she reassures, running her thumbs along the edges of his cheekbones.

He nods, eyes downcast. Kisses her again. And then, after a beat, he opens a hand to her and nods towards the palace. “Shall we?”

There are at least a hundred of the Galaxy’s wealthiest citizens scattered throughout the sleek, glittering bar, all clutching ornately-garnished cocktails and snatching for passing _hors d'œuvres_. The noise level is startling, voices echoing off the high ceilings and hard surfaces until they blend together into a cacophonous roar.

The _Sith’ari_ leans against the bar, trying desperately to shed some… _Man_. Elderly. Annoying. Far too close, and louder still. She’s lost track of how long he’s been here. Minutes, perhaps. Years. Centuries. That he is the only person currently on this planet foolish enough to approach her seems a distinction that is entirely lost on him.

“Hypermatter is not for the weak,” he rattles on, “As another student of spiritual domination, my Lady, I trust you’ll understand.”

“My _Lord_ ,” she corrects, rubbing at her temples. “I am your _Lord_.” Only just returned to her husband’s good graces, she knows that Armitage will never, ever forgive her if she kills this man. _Awful timing_ , she thinks. _Just… Just awful._

“For 82 years, I’ve been in this business!” he nearly shouts, now gesturing quite wildly his cane. Annihila blinks in surprise, leaning away. “The Empire rose and fell, the First Order rose and fell, but _here I remain_! And how, my Lady, do you think I did that?”

“I am your _Lord_.” _How badly do we_ need _Hypermatter, anyway?_ _How many weapons even still_ use _Hypermatter?_

“By crushing my enemies!” he cries, “By grinding their bones into dirt!”

Annihila takes an oblivion-seeking drink of her champagne. _If his head were to suddenly…_ Explode _, say, what are the chances, really, that people would know it was my doing?_

“Mind over flesh, my Lady!” he howls, “We warriors must—"

“My _Lord_ ,” she snarls, clutching at her forehead, “I am your _Lord_ , your _Lord_ , your _LORD_ —”

“Darth Annihila.”

She looks up, and at once exhales in shuddering relief. A man is approaching from across the crowded room. Taller than her, arrestingly handsome and deeply blue-skinned. One side of his head is shaved, and the rest hangs mid-chest in a blue-black curtain; an ornate braid divides the two halves. A pair of silver rings cling to his left eyebrow, and a few more hang from his ears. He smiles at her, an expression carried heavily in his glowing red eyes, and he bows politely as he approaches.

Darth Annihila has never been so grateful to see anyone in her life. She rolls her shoulders back, stands up straight, and greets him by his full name. “Zassa'acoth'oama,” she says, putting two fingers to her brow in the traditional Chiss greeting. “I had so hoped you would be here.”

He bows respectfully. “And I you, _ch'eo Ect'asearcsen'i_.”

“That’s hardly what you called me, last time you approached me in a bar.”

He gives her a playful nod as he joins her. “ _Ch'eo ch'acah_.”

“Parnassus,” her conversational assailant interjects, thrusting a gnarled hand towards the Chiss. “Hypermatter mining.”

“Leave,” A’acoth’o commands.

“But—"

The Chiss leans in, close and condescending. “Darth Annihila may have to be polite to you, old man, but I certainly don’t. _Leave_.”

He acquiesces, scurrying away and grumbling under his breath.

At that, Annihila smiles. “I’ll add that to the growing tally of times you’ve saved my life, old friend.”

“An entirely meaningless thing to keep track of, my Lady. Each time was an honor. Ah—” He catches himself. “I apologize. My _Lord_.”

She presses her lips to his cheek. “My beauty, you can call me whatever you like.”

He’s a Csillan War Hawk, or at least he had been, at the time of their first meeting. Lately, he’s come to see the benefit in profiteering for her, providing both whispers and weapons from the edge of the Unknown Regions. They had conducted a tempestuous love affair in their youth, when she’d first ventured to the Chiss Ascendency in her questing for Ren. And, rare though it is for her, the kinship has lasted since. He is, perhaps, her oldest friend in the Galaxy, besides her Knights. Like them, he has stayed with her all this time.

“A'acoth'o, you delicious thing,” Annihila implores softly, leaning back against the bar to face him, “What do you hear of the Far Outsiders, these days?”

He casts her a dubious look.

“Come, now,” she coaxes, “What have they been up to, lately? If anyone in this Galaxy knows, it’s you, you clever thing.”

“The Vong? Keeping to themselves, as far as we can tell,” he says, sipping idly from his drink, “But why does my Lady ask such a thing? Has the Second Sight perhaps shown some coming trouble?”

“Oh, no, my beauty,” she confidently reassures, tracing her fingertips along the beautiful tattoo on the side of his neck, “Simple curiosity.”

He cocks an eyebrow, unconvinced.

She thinks for only a moment before impulsively taking the risk. “Does the name A’Sharad Hett hold any meaning to you?”

“The Sighted Tusken?” he asks, and her heart begins to beat faster, “He’s a marauder. A bounty hunter. Any true alliances he had died with the last of the Jedi.”

She tries to keep her tone casual as she remarks, “Is that so?”

“Yes. He came through… Oh, not so long ago. He was on his way out to Vong territory, but never said why.”

“How long ago?”

“Ten standard months? Maybe a year?” He shrugs. “If he made it back, he didn’t stop in Chiss space. I’d assumed he was captured.”

“Hmm…” Though she seems idly pensive, in truth, the Empress is quickened by this information. Bri’ahl was right, brilliant as he is.

“What is your business with the Tusken?”

She quickly smiles, shaking it off. “You needn’t worry about that, my beauty,” she croons, running her fingers through his hair, “But let’s keep this matter between us, for now, yes?”

He nods. “Anything you say, Lady Annihila.”

“Mmm,” she leans in to press a kiss to his cheek, “You delicious thing, thank you.”

He turns to stand beside her, leaning back against the bar. Hux is working the room as brilliantly as only he can, in his blindingly white uniform and gilded laurels. Cigar in one hand, tumbler of scotch in the other. Every bit the Emperor, in form and appearance. Radiant. She sees him laugh at some joke made by some military industrialist. One of the old boy’s club, from Academy days. _Cartwright_ , or some other ridiculous Human name. To anyone else, the laugh would seem so natural and genuine, but she can see the clear effort put into it. The strain. Annihila knows that events like this wear on him; he’s always tired and frustrated afterwards. Never wants to talk, only wants to fuck and sleep, and that’s fine by her. Nights like these wear on her, too.

“Shouldn’t you be over there with him?” A’acoth’o remarks, following her gaze.

“No.” Annihila laughs, downing the rest of her drink, “I’m hardly trained for this sort of… _Thing_.”

“Must my Lady be _trained_ , in order to hold conversation?”

“There’s that razor-sharp wit.” She rolls her eyes, nudging at him with her elbow. “And yes, actually. If I’m to be expected to carry on with such detestable creatures as these. I can feel them all…” She closes her eyes, face twitching with disgust. “ _Writhing_ over each other like a dish of worms, trying to clamber for him in their greed. I can hear all of their conniving, all of their desperate plots and schemes. All the ways in which they plan to stab each other in the back to earn our favor. And most of it is so hollow, so… So _toothless_. Nothing but an exhausting masquerade, rotten to the core. I’m made for things far more brutal and self-evident than this.”

He watches her face, brow gathering as she speaks.

“I am here to be but an emblem of our Empire. A reminder of our might and cruelty. A beautiful threat, to keep them from getting too comfortable. And look at how they regard me.”

He follows her gaze as she scans over the crowded room, catching here and there on the tentative, fearful glances cast in her direction.

“Terror,” she says, “They shrink from me as though I’m a live grenade.”

“But would my Lady have it any other way?” A’acoth’o asks, gently taking her empty glass. He gestures to the bartender, exchanging it for another.

“No.” Her lip curls into a wicked smile as she surveys the room. “They _should_ shrink from me.” She takes the drink gratefully, toasting him in thanks.

“He’s quite the specimen,” A’acoth’o remarks, looking over at Hux, “Your Emperor.”

The statement catches her by surprise. The Chiss, as a rule, have little respect for Humans; Imperial or otherwise. (Then again, neither do Dathomirians.) But she nods, pride swelling in her chest as she looks upon her husband. “Yes, he is.”

“Is that a common hair color, for his species?”

She shakes her head, chuckling softly. “Absolutely not. It makes him something of an oddity.”

“I must say, I never thought you’d select a Single-Sighted Human,” he boldly admits, “Oddity or otherwise.”

“No?” She exhales a bright laugh. “Nor did I. And yet, here we are.”

“Did you have a Human wedding? I don’t recall seeing an invitation on my desk.”

“No wedding. Can you picture me in white?” She shudders at the thought. “No, Armitage wanted one. He tried to tell me that we _needed_ one. But I told him that we’re the Sovereign supreme, and we don’t have to follow anyone’s rules but our own. So, we struck up a compromise: no Human wedding, and no _Uizel_.” ( _Uizel_ : Selection process whereby the Nightsisters choose a mate. Males fight to the death until only one victor remains.)

A’acoth’o smirks, entirely amused by the thought. _What an ultimatum_. Rcati, _she hasn’t changed_. _Still such a wild, vicious thing._

For a moment, the pair comfortably share silence, watching the room with a kind of haughty, detached interest as they lean against the bar.

And then he cranes his neck down to whisper in her ear. “Do you remember that… Ah, that last afternoon on The Redoubt, before Ren came back to collect you?”

She smiles, settling her chin onto his shoulder. “Yes, my beauty, I remember.”

“Oh?” He casts his glowing, red eyes down onto her, returning her smile. “Indulge me, your Imperial Highness.”

Isn’t it just like a Chiss, to be so straightforward? So unyielding? Alas, the Empress has never been able to deny him. And he knows it.

“Our work was done. Vosk'idon'imi was dead, and the fighting had begun.” She sighs deeply, swirling the contents of her champagne flute. “And then it was only you and me left in that cave, endlessly self-satisfied. Drinking as only the young can. Talking about the future, as only the young do.”

“That’s still the best fuck I’ve ever had.”

“Stop,” she scolds, nudging him lightly on the arm.

He nods. “I think about that day quite often, if I’m being honest. We were so clear with one another, back then. About our feelings, or complete lack thereof. About our intentions. I wanted you, you wanted me back, and so we fucked. That was all. None of the superficial considerations we find ourselves so tangled up in these days, none of this political double-speak. All that mattered was that day, that moment.”

“I suppose that’s true.” She looks up at him, smiling wryly. “Though I think you simply enjoyed the submission, my beauty.”

He laughs, knocking back the rest of his drink. “It takes a formidable woman to make be beg, Niha. Just as it goes without saying that you _are_ that formidable a woman. But it was something more, on that day.” He tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “Was it the perfect isolation, I wonder? The perfect peace, in that terrible place? All the chaos we’d wrought, and there we were, right in the middle of it. Completely untouched. I remember how thrilled I was to be the center of your attention, for however brief a time. Ren’s Lady. Deadliest woman in the Galaxy, even then. So darkly brilliant, so powerful. And _sure_. I wasn’t sure of anything, then, and I’m sure of little now. But not you. You always had a grasp on things, and you made it look so easy. So effortless. And it was infectious as all hell.” He exhales slowly, and his eyes flicker open. “I suppose that’s what your Emperor likes, too.”

“He does his best, for me,” she says, uncharacteristically vulnerable, “Which is more than I can often say of myself. I know I’m not an easy one to love. Not an easy one to be bound to. I’m too wild a thing.”

“You’ve been like that all your life,” he nods, “Probably why I never tried, myself.”

Their eyes meet, and there is an undeniable connection. A shiver runs through them both, racing back through the years; a chain winding in, back to that anchor of shared experience.

“It’s been nearly thirty years since that afternoon on The Redoubt,” A’acoth’o says softly, “Can you believe that?”

“No,” she swiftly negates, “That simply can’t be true.”

He laughs gently. “ _Visahot_ , I’m afraid it is.”

For a moment, Annihila tries to think forward thirty more years. She can only visualize it in terms of conquered planets, of victories and losses. By her own best projection, she and Armitage will still be reigning. Still beautiful and powerful and very much in love. By her worst, he will be dead, as tends to happen to Force-null Humans, and she will remain. Lingering to be ground into dust by the slow march of time unending.

Or, perhaps, they’ll both be dead.

There’s a subtle change in the Force as the thought crosses her mind. Nearly imperceptible, but still there. Some dark ripple, like a wave on a black shore.

 _Yes_ , she thinks. _Let us die together. I could think of no more beautiful an end._

Oddly enough, Hux can sense it, too. Like the gentle brush of fingertips along the back of his neck. His eyes flit up to meet hers, from across the room, and he gives her a sort of sympathetic smile. _At least she found A’acoth’o_ , he thinks _. One of her old guard, and someone just as vicious as she. Perhaps they can reminisce about all the murders they’ve committed together._

He slips a cigarette between his lips and cocks an expectant eyebrow. With a flick of her finger, it lights, and he gives her a subtle bow in thanks.

The Emperor, for his part, has such a twisted relationship with these nights. Because he remembers, all too well, the years he spent clawing and fighting to be a part of this world. He’s scarred by the subtle way people’s faces would change, when they picked up the unavoidable flatness to his vowels, the occasional ‘ _r_ ’ that came through hard, rather than being left so _tastefully_ unvoiced. He remembers the sting as people took in his attire: expensive-looking and almost in-fashion, but always store-bought, never bespoke. For years, his career was but the sum of all these tiny, myriad shortcomings. His success was determined by whispers behind hands in crowded ballrooms, remarks from forked tongues about his name and his age and his military haircut. As though being born with a pile of credits would have somehow made him _greater_ than a man who, through sheer strength of will alone, _made_ himself the General of the First Order.

If only they knew what he’d been through.

As if they could’ve done better.

And now, here he stands: at the very center of the Galaxy over which he has complete dominion. Lavishly dressed and drunk and well-fed, with the most powerful, beautiful woman who ever lived lighting his cigarettes from across the room. Loving him so much that it feels as though his heart could burst.

Those terrible days are long behind him, now. And, as sick as this world makes him, with all of its greed and conniving and empty, rotten materialism, he can’t help but relish being able to despise it from the inside. It’s a privilege he’s bought and paid for with blood, sweat, and tears.

“Hux,” Cartwright nudges.

The Emperor blinks a few times, turning back to his Academy friend. “Hmm?”

“Where did you drift off to?” he prods, following the ghost of his gaze across the room. _Ah, yes_ , he thinks, lips curling into a slight sneer. _The battle-axe._ “Hux, what the hell do you see in her?”

The Emperor scoffs, rolls his eyes.

“No, I’m quite serious,” he presses, “I never thought of you as the marrying type, least of all to a witch like _that_.”

Hux bristles, “What is that supposed to mean? ‘ _Not the marrying type_.’” No point arguing about the rest. She is, quite literally, a witch.

“Put it this way, old boy,” he says, leaning casually against the table, “All the times I thought of you hitched up and domestic, I never once imagined you’d be the _husband_ in the arrangement.”

“Careful,” he snaps, heat rising to his face, “We may have history, Cartwright, but I am still your Emperor.”

“Convince me, then.”

Hux scoffs. “I’m under absolutely no obligation—”

“For old times’ sake,” he presses, “For all of that _history_.”

The Emperor heaves a frustrated sigh, knowing that this interrogation will only persist until he addresses it. Maker forbid it festers into rumor, because Cartwright is precisely the type to let _that_ happen. He lingers on a steeling mouthful of scotch before he speaks.

“In the beginning? Power. That’s what drew me to her. _Potential_. You and I… Our life’s work depends on structure, Human and material. Things we can design and construct and maintain. But a Sith has no need for such fragile assemblages. The power in her lies beneath her skin, in her blood. And it can never be taken away, not by anyone or anything. What wouldn’t you give, to say such a thing of yourself?”

“I don’t know, Hux,” he murmurs, “I don’t know.”

“I look at her, and I see _everything_ ,” he continues, pointing across the room to his wife, “Every single thing I’ve ever wanted; things I didn’t even know I wanted. Beauty, glory, and horror. I asked for an army, and she gave me one. I asked for a Throne, and she claimed it for me. I asked for the Galaxy, and she brought it to its knees at my feet. She’s all of my fury and joy, each moment of brilliance and frustration. She’s _everything_.”

“And what of love, old boy? Shouldn’t that be a consideration, as well, when choosing one’s life partner? I’m not talking about a good fuck, here, no matter _how_ good she may be.”

Hux laughs sardonically, taking a steeling drink of scotch. “The love we share is beyond anything you’d ever be able to comprehend. The years we’ve given to each other, the things we’ve felt, the things we’ve experienced… Maker, the _devotion_. You’ve no idea. We _transcend_ you. You, and every measure you could ever think to apply.”

It’s a long beat before Cartwright responds. “My word,” he marvels, glib to the last, “There’s a _poet_ in you, Hux. Perhaps you are the wife, after all.”

“ _Careful_ ,” the Emperor reiterates.

“Why?” he taunts dangerously, “Will your Sith Lord stop my heart from across the room?”

He smiles confidently. “Only if I ask her to.”

“How very reassuring.” Cartwright takes up another cigarette and taps it against the table, lips pressed tightly together. He glances at Hux, sly and evaluating, and then looks away. “Speaking of your… _Beginnings_ …”

A tellingly inelegant segue. Hux cocks an eyebrow, sensing a burgeoning conflict.

“That old business with the Hosnian System. Or rather, the blood-stained asteroid field where the Hosnian System used to be. Theories ran rampant, of course, a number of Outer Rim warlords and terrorist organizations tried to take credit. All dear friends of your wife, I imagine,” he remarks smartly, nodding towards the Chiss, “But all of the really _dodgy_ characters insisted that it was the First Order’s doing. And now… What with you in the big chair and all, who could possibly sort out the propaganda from the truth? So, I’ll ask as an old friend: was that you?”

The Emperor scowls. It is not lost on him that this is the second time in the course of a single conversation that Cartwright has employed this nasty, emotional appeal.

“I want the truth, now, Hux. I think I deserve it.”

But isn’t that just like a Corellian, with all of their wheedling and double-speak? What a detestable man his friend has become.

Nevertheless, Hux thrusts his chin imperiously high and announces, “Yes. It was a tactical decision, and I do stand by it.”

Cartwright shakes his head, fiddles with the lighter. “ _Well_. I suppose that’s as good a reason as any to commit genocide.”

“Oh, don’t be such a child.”

Cartwright exhales a hollow laugh. “I assure you, Hux, if we’d had a class superlative for ‘power-hungry madman most likely to blow up an entire star system’, you certainly would’ve had my vote.”

Hux waves his hand dismissively. “It’s no use trying to justify it, you’ll never understand. You were only ever out for yourself, weren’t you? Never once bothered with the big picture.”

“I may be a cold-blooded capitalist, old boy, but at least I’ve never erased an entire system from the sky because the mood took me.”

Hux sputters indignantly. “How _dare_ —"

“And for what? Order?” Cartwright gestures towards the assembled guests, “Yes, I imagine that your Empire will be quite well-ordered indeed when it’s finally rid of all these bothersome lifeforms.”

“Oh, now you’re being intentionally naïve,” Hux spits, annoyed by this entire thread of conversation, “Please remind me: how did you make your fortune?” He watches as Cartwright tenses his jaw, preemptively defensive. “Yes, you were quite happily complicit in all of it, weren’t you _old boy_? But you always kept enough distance to buy yourself some plausible deniability, and wasn’t that clever? If the Republic had triumphed, well, you never _really_ supported us, did you? You were just following the money, which is what any smart man would’ve done. It was wartime, after all. But here we are, and as you said, _I’m in the big chair_ , and didn’t you do your part to put me here? ‘ _Oh, that ought to be worth some consideration, don’t you think, Armie, old boy?_ ’”

Cartwright ashes his cigarette onto the floor, brusque and agitated. “It’s like you said. I’m a survivor.”

Hux scoffs. “ _Survive_. Caitiff rot. _Live_ ,” he commands, “And never forget the first lesson: we must be powerful, beautiful, and without regret. Fear not the Dark, and feast.”

“Those are your wife’s words,” he scoffs, by way of a dismissal.

“Yes, they are,” Hux snaps, shoving past his old friend, “Excuse me.”

Annihila smiles to see him approaching, feeling the golden glow of him grow warmer and brighter with each step he takes.

“ _En’kar_ , what has happened to us, my Lady?” A’acoth’o breathes, “Drinking, now, like the old do, talking about the past like the old do.”

“Speak for yourself,” she remarks, looking up at him, “I’m only just coming into my prime.”

“Yes,” he smiles, “I can see that.”

For a long moment, these old friends look at one another with a sort of open curiosity, taking in the fine lines, the incremental changes that go unnoticed, day by day but become so stark after a long separation. All the new tattoos, the new piercings. New scars. A’acoth’o leans in and the Empress tenses, thinking, inexplicably that he’s going to kiss her. _Really_ kiss her. But his hands slide around her back and he gathers her into his arms. It feels different to the way they’d greeted one another, only minutes ago. That contact had been so performative, more a public display of alliance and boundary than any sign of true friendship. False, as he’d said. An empty, political consideration. But this… This is genuine. This carries _weight_. His chin rests on her shoulder and he exhales, a soft, final sound, then he pulls back and takes her gently by the shoulders.

“We’ve made it this far, my beauty,” she says, out of a need to say something, _anything_. “And that’s a lot more than our old guard can say.”

“Does he make you happy?” A’acoth’o suddenly asks, and his tone is at once so open and earnest that she finds herself entirely arrested by it.

“Yes,” she says, blinking up at him, “Yes, he does.”

He nods briskly. “Good. That’s all I’ll ever ask of him.”

“A’acoth’o,” Hux greets with a smile, stepping up to slip a possessive arm around Annihila’s waist.

And with that, the moment evaporates. Fading at once into memory, like the lace of breath on a cold morning.

The Chiss bows his head, touching two fingers to his brow. “ _Ch'eo Ect'asearcsi_.”

“Skulking in the shadows with my wife, I see.” By his tone, Annihila can tell that he’s well on his way to drunk.

“Glowing in her radiance, my Liege Lord,” he diplomatically corrects.

Annihila smiles. “You silver-tongued devil, flattery will get you everywhere in this Empire.”

Just as Hux begins to lead her away, A’acoth’o catches her by the wrist. “Annihila.”

She casts him a questioning look, gaze flitting between the hand on her wrist and the expression on his face.

He leans in close, to whisper in her ear. “If your Imperial Majesties are for a lack of warmth, during your stay on Cantonica, you know where to find me.”

She cocks an eyebrow, lip curling back to reveal one of her fang-like teeth. And with that, Hux drags her off.

“Did he have any insight?” he asks in a low voice, leading them out of earshot.

“He says that Hett is a Jedi turned bounty hunter,” she reveals. “Not allied with the Vong, as far as he knows.”

Hux grimaces, and she can hear the flurry of thoughts race through his mind.

She exhales a bitter laugh. “Precisely.”

The Emperor and Empress sitting at a high-stakes Sabacc table, surrounded by their most loyal warmongers and arms dealers. And, entirely unbeknownst to them, disaster is stalking through the room like a predator.

Annihila is perched in her husband’s lap, clutching her champagne flute in one hand and curling her fingers through the hair on the back of his neck with the other. Smiling. She’s barred from play, of course, but she enjoys the drama, all the same. Armitage is a formidable Sabacc player, often surprising even her with his bold, confident strategy. She likes to try and plot out as many moves into the future as she can, and watch how closely he adheres to her predictions.

After a particularly successful hand, amidst all the cheers and congratulations, Annihila leans down and to whisper in her husband’s ear. “Keep playing like that, and I’ll have no choice but to fuck His Highness right here.”

He smiles, turning to whisper back. “Behave yourself, now, darling.” She can hear the thrill in his voice.

“My Liege Lady had better not be helping her husband cheat!” someone calls out, a rare and risky tease at the Empress’ expense, and the entire table laughs good-naturedly.

She beams, leaning in to brush her lips against Hux’s. “You should know, by now, that your Emperor hardly needs my help to win.”

As the dealer distributes the cards for a new round, a waiter comes by to exchange her empty champagne flute with another.

“I do think we needed this, darling,” Armitage remarks idly, looking over his new hand.

In the span of a single evening, they’ve managed to secure new weapons contracts, forge additional intelligence connections, and increase shipyard control. A fruitful visit, to be sure. But all of it pales in comparison, Hux thinks, to seeing his Empress smile. Knowing she’s safe.

“Yes,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to his temple, “It’s good we came.”

A’acoth’o is standing across the table, eyeing them admiringly. She casts him a wry and admonishing look.

Hux slips a cigarette between his lips, taking note of the exchange. “Why do I get the sense that that Chiss is also trying to fuck His Highness right here?” he murmurs.

“Because he is, darling,” she replies casually, lighting his cigarette with the touch of her fingertip.

He exhales a disbelieving laugh, color rising hot on his cheeks. “Annihila, _really_ …”

And then, as the Empress reaches for her champagne flute, a hand claps to her wrist.

“I wouldn’t drink that, _ri Sith’ari_.”

She doesn’t even have to look, to know who it is. His presence feels like an icy pinprick at the base of her skull. At once, Annihila’s surroundings fall away entirely. No sound, no light. And in the void, two pulse points on either side of a curved horizon line. In the flicker of time between heartbeats, she’s leapt to her feet and thrust her glowing sabers beneath the chin of a smirking A’Sharad Hett. A few people scream, scrambling away from the confrontation, and the two warriors find themselves standing in an open circle of onlookers.

The Emperor rises in a fury. “What is the meaning of this?” he demands.

Hett’s eyes flit across the room for a moment, and then back to Annihila’s.

 _The waiter,_ he tells her.

She follows his gaze, laying eyes on the man who’d brought her drink. A Twi’lek. “You!” she shouts, pointing towards him with her saber. The crowd parts between them, screaming and clawing over each other to get clear of the confrontation.

The Twi’lek’s eyes widen. He drops his tray, and tries to bolt through the packed room. She quickly holsters her left saber, and a strong wave of her hand brings him hurtling across the room towards her. He cries out in pain and fear as she takes both of his _lekku_ in her grip, bending him forward over the table.

“What’s in this drink?” she demands, her glowing blade hovering above his tails. Close enough for him to feel the heat. She knows full well what the answer is; his mind is flayed open in his terror. But she wants to hear him admit it.

“N-nothing, my Lord!” he cries, quivering hands held up in surrender. “Nothing to my knowledge!”

“ _Nothing_?” She shakes him roughly.

“ _No_ , my Lord! I would never!”

The Emperor steps up beside her. “Then drink it,” he commands.

The Twi’lek glances up at him in fear. “M-my Lord?”

“If there’s nothing in it,” Hux sneers, “Then drink it yourself.”

Annihila releases her hold on her captive, allowing him to stand. But she follows his throat with her saber. “You Emperor gave you an order.”

“Your Imperial Majesties,” he implores, eyes darting around fearfully, “This is our finest Corellian vintage. It would be wasted on me, I am— Ah, _entirely_ unworthy of—”

“Drink,” Annihila commands, lifting her saber closer to his throat. “Either way, you’re going to die in this room.”

For a long moment, he simply looks at her. And then his eyes glaze over a little and he blinks. Realization takes hold, and she devours the despair ebbing from him as a woman dying of starvation. With a shaking hand, he reaches out and picks up the champagne flute. The crowd murmurs.

And then, looking deep into her face, he raises the glass in a toast. “For the Resistance,” he says, a single tear cascading down his cheek. With that, he tips the contents of the glass into his mouth.

He falls dead at her feet before he even has time to set it down again. His wide eyes are fixed in an unseeing gaze on the ceiling, lips just slightly parted.

Silence hangs tense and palpable in the room as Annihila kicks him aside, scowling. Still stunned, still reeling, the Emperor trails a gentle finger down her cheek, and she kisses his knuckles as if to still him. And then she turns her blade to A’sharad Hett.

“What are you doing here?” she demands.

“Saving the life of my Empress,” he replies aloud. But, in the silent space between them, his thoughts ring out. _To think, the_ Sith’ari _nearly died at a Sabacc table. Did my Lord not sense the danger?_

Annihila blinks in surprise, taken aback. _No_ , she realizes. _I didn’t_.

 _Complacent_ , he boldly reminds her. _And vulnerable in your solitude._

At once, the Empress becomes aware of the stunned silence hanging in the room. Armitage is watching her like he understands what’s happening, like he’s waiting for her to act so he can follow her lead.

She steps over the body of her would-be assassin, squaring up to the Tusken. Her gaze travels across his tattooed face, illuminated by the pulsing, red glow of her saber.

And then she retracts her blade, holstering it on her hip once more. “You and I are going to have a talk.”

The room seems to exhale in collective relief, low murmurs breaking out all around them.

Hux reaches out to take her by the hand. “Ani…”

“Go back to the room, Armitage,” she commands, eyes still fixed on Hett’s.

He tugs childishly at her hand, and she rounds on him. His brow is deeply furrowed, seemingly bewildered by her course of action.

Annihila leans in to whisper in his ear. “This is why you bring me on these trips. Go back to the room, right now.” Her eyes flit momentarily over his shoulder, and a knowing smile tugs at her lips. _Take A’acoth’o. He’ll protect you._

She watches as his face burns red, once more, and his eyes flit to the Chiss.

“I’ll be up shortly.”

The Empress makes her way across the crowded floor, Hett following closely in her wake. The sea of people parts for her, genuflecting at her feet as she walks between them.

She doesn’t even look at them.

They settle on a wide balcony, hanging out over the ocean. Beneath them, the moonlit waves lap gently at the foundations of the building.

He begins, strangely, by asking, “Did you enjoy my gift?”

She flinches, allows the question to go unanswered. “I’m going to ask you this one more time,” she says, leaning against the stone balustrade, “What are you doing here?”

“I followed you,” he admits, “From Ixigul.”

“Why?”

“To see what you would do.”

“ _To see what I would do_ ,” she whispers, shaking her head in disbelief. “ _Jatzsi_ , the arrogance.”

“You can stop worrying about the Vong, my Lord,” he tells her, “They’re no friends of mine.”

“So I’ve heard,” she exhales, gazing out over the sea.

“I feel as though I should apologize for the strategy I employed, on Ixigul,” he says, still hanging back behind her, “But I didn’t think that a simple tap on the shoulder would’ve been sufficient to get your attention.”

She gnaws on a mirthless chuckle, glancing over her shoulder towards him. “So, you thought to hit me with a hammer, is that it?”

“Regrettably, yes,” he admits, “I hope that, with time, you’ll come to forgive me for it.”

Annihila turns, studying him intently. “My guards told me you were carrying a lightsaber.”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Show me.”

He unclips it from his waist, holding it out to his Empress. The blade flashes to life in her hand, and the night burns green.

 _Green_.

Oddly, she sees a flash of Kylo’s face.

“This isn’t yours,” she remarks, inspecting the hilt, “By what means did you acquire this weapon?”

“It was my father’s,” he proudly reveals.

“Was he a Jedi?” She says the word as though its very presence in her mouth will poison her.

“He was.”

She scoffs, giving the blade a few experimental turns. It hums through the air, dragging light and heat through the space between them. Hypnotic. “A student of Bane must surely agree that the Force is not fire, but rather venom,” she challenges, “Diluted when spread.”

“No,” he states frankly, “No, it is there that I disagree with Lord Bane. The Force _is_ fire. And as it stands now, you alone bear the flame. I know that one who serves the Balance as you do would rather die than see that flame expire.”

Her face twitches, perturbed. “What _are_ you, Hett?” she asks, “Are you a Jedi? A Sith?”

“I am one who serves the Balance,” he diplomatically corrects, “No more.”

She lets the blade slow to a stop, and her eyes come to rest on his. “It would seem that there is a debt between us, now, A’Sharad Hett.”

“I had not thought of it that way, my Lord.”

“Yes, you had. Don’t lie to me.”

Hett does not reply.

She sighs, resuming the graceful, artistic handling of the blade. “Luckily for you, I do repay my debts.”

“My Lord?”

She tosses the saber into the air, catching it expertly as it falls. “ _Dro rai krajotimas, mis aras ûrûadasi_.” (Through our wounds, we are one.) At once, the blade is thrust beneath his chin. Close enough for him to feel the heat. Close enough to threaten.

Testing him.

Eerily enough, he smiles. Just as he had on Exegol. “Again, I find myself unarmed, and at your mercy, _ri Sith’ari._ ”

“And you surely will, again,” she says, retracting the blade, “Before this is over.”

Cautiously, he takes his weapon back. “Oh?”

“You’ll need a blade of your own.” Annihila says, returning to lean against the balustrade once more. Her hands are laced tightly together, perhaps the only outward sign of the fear and fury that still lingers in her limbs. “I won’t look at that green, ever again. Speak with Ewan, before you go. He’ll get you a Dantari Kyber crystal. Unless…” Her lip curls into a cruel, half-smile. “Unless you’ve another dragon hunt in you, _ki trorin_.” (My brother.)

He steps up beside her, craning into her field of view. His eyes search so intently across her face, and for the first time, the hardness in his features seems to fade away entirely. In its place, she can see something guardedly desperate. Something _absolved_. “My Lord?”

“I will return to Korriban, with you by my side,” she announces, gaze fixed on the horizon, “Darth Krayt.”

When the Empress enters the darkened suite, the first thing she sees is Hux’s cape, draped purposefully over the back of the couch. And then the half-empty glasses of scotch on the low table, and the open bottle beside them.

She begins to hear them as she crosses the room towards the bedchamber. And when she reaches the doorway, she has to pause for a moment to take in the sight. Hux is spread out on his back near the edge of the bed, his bare skin glowing in the starlight as it’s reflected off of the sea outside. A’acoth’o is kneeling on the floor with Hux’s legs slung over his shoulders, fingers buried inside him as he takes him in his mouth. Armitage gasps and moans, one hand working through the dark spill of his hair.

 _Lazy slut_ , she teases.

Armitage opens his eyes, craning his neck to look at her. He extends a hand, panting. “Where have _you_ been?”

The following morning, Annihila awakens wrapped around her husband. A’acoth’o is behind her, one arm draped over her waist. Both men are still sleeping heavily. But there’s a kind of quiet, insistent energy humming beneath her skin. She can’t stay here. And so, she gently extricates herself from between them, and the Chiss is quick to take her place, filling the void of her warmth against him with the warmth of her husband. She dons one of her silk dressing gowns, and slips silently from the room.

The sun has only just begun to rise in the distance, as she steps out onto the balcony. A cool breeze is blowing in from the sea, whipping her hair back from her face. The weight of all that transpired, the previous night, settles back onto her shoulders.

The Twi’lek. The Tusken. Korriban.

Darth Krayt.

She beckons Hux’s cigarette case into her hand from across the room, slipping one between her lips and lighting it with the touch of her finger. The hum it sets in her blood is far from stilling, but she craves it, nonetheless.

_“What are you doing, Nul?”_

“He’s quite a creature, isn’t he?” The sound makes her jump, but it’s her husband. He slips an arm around her waist, the warmth of sleep still clinging to his skin, and leans in to press a kiss to her neck. “Kriff, I may never recover from that.”

Her reply is a noncommittal, “Mmm…”

He sighs deeply, settling in against her back. “What, Ani? What happened?”

“I’m awake, Armitage.”

He exhales a brusque laugh. “Yes, I had noticed. Went to press back into you and felt a great, big, hard—”

“That’s not what I mean,” she interrupts, perturbed. “I mean that I’m… I’m _awake_. For the first time in years.”

“Awake how?”

“My eyes are open,” she murmurs distantly, “I see, now, that… That comfort is a drug. One to which I have become hopelessly addicted. The mind of a Sith requires pain and… And horror. It must sharpen against them like a blade on a whetstone.”

Hux’s stomach turns. “Those are the Tusken’s words.”

“Krayt,” she softly corrects. “Darth Krayt.”

“Ani.” He turns her roughly in his arms, backing her against the railing, “ _What_?”

“He is with us, now.” And then, reluctantly, “I had no choice.”

“You did have a choice!” he snaps, “You could’ve killed him! Why the hell is he still alive?”

“I owe him my _life_!”

He dismisses the remark with a wave of his hand. “That’s—Ah, that’s such religious nonsense!”

“Armitage,” she implores, and the vulnerability in her tone gives him pause, “I— I don’t know if I can.”

“What?”

“Kill him. I don’t know if I can… Can kill him.”

He blinks in shock. “Are you not the One Sith?”

For a moment, Annihila’s mouth opens and closes around words unvoiced.

“Dammit,” he mutters, turning away from her. “Dammit _all_ , Annihila.” He laces his fingers together tightly, leaning against the stone balustrade. “Damn you, too.”

His words make her heart ache. She sinks, face falling into her hands. She can feel her eyes sting, vision beginning to blur. “Sometimes, all we have in life are painful, poisonous choices.”

He scoffs.

“Tell me that you trust me.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. She can tell by his breathing that he’s struggling for words. And she loves him enough that she does not pry into his mind, despite her frantic desperation. He seems a thing made of glass, that if she isn’t careful, he’ll shatter and hurt her. But the silence is beginning to destroy her.

“Armitage, please,” she begs, placing her hands on his hips and leaning her forehead between his shoulder blades. “ _Please_. You are the heart of my heart. I cannot do this without you.”

Hux sighs deeply. “Of course, I trust you,” he tiredly reassures, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips, “I’ll always trust you.”

She swallows hard, biting back the desire to say more. Something catches her attention, then, and she tilts her head in gentle focus. “A’acoth’o is waking up,” she says, soft and dismayed, “He’s thinking of taking you in the shower.”

Despite himself, the Emperor’s heart skips a beat.

“You should go to him,” she says. It’s as close to an apology as she can muster.

“You come, too,” he says, surprised by how much it had sounded like begging.

“I’ll join you in a while.”

After a beat, he takes her gently by the wrists, wrapping her arms across his waist. “Then I’ll wait.” It’s as close to an apology as she’ll get.

The silence between them is deafening. Annihila closes her eyes, but the tabacc makes her feel frenetic and hyper-alert. Her mind flits from thought to thought, lingering on the past and its link to the present, and all the worrying continuities that make her feel like some part of herself was set in stone, years ago.

“ _What are you doing, Nul?”_

Only one person knew that name.

Hux’s hair flutters against her face in the low wind, and he tilts his head back to press his cheek to hers.

“I think, sometimes, that I should’ve been born a man,” she says. The admission is an odd one, and not something she’d ever thought she’d voice to her husband. But it burst from her chest before she could stop it.

“What?” he asks idly.

“I should’ve been born a man.”

After a beat, he turns in her arms. Ice-chip eyes travel across her face, veiled by his sprays of pale lashes. They trace along her cheekbones, her brow. Her jaw. They linger for a long moment on her lips before he finally meets her gaze.

“That’s alright,” he announces. “I’d love you all the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a crisis and a threesome to fix your failing marriage, amirite folks?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the massive chapters. I'm just realizing that I need to cram like 200 pages of stuff into one "part" and I don't want people to have to click through 60 chapters.

“I was scouting apart from my troops, when Order 66 was issued.”

Darth Annihila sits cross-legged, with her back pressed to Krayt’s. The floor of the cave is cool and pleasant, a far cry from the unforgiving Korriban desert so high above. They’re close to the Vergence, in here. Close enough that they can feel it pulsing through their blood, binding them together.

“I watched other Jedi slain. My brothers and sisters, falling like so many ashes. But I… I killed the clones assigned to execute me, saving only one long enough to learn why. And then I fled the planet. Like a… Ah, like a coward, I fled.”

The Empress doesn’t know what to say. How to react. She can feel him in her mind, now, not an invasion, but rather a gentle sharing. The occupation of the same space. It is a closeness that she has never known before.

_Well… I knew it, once._

“The Jedi comm channels were silent,” he continues, “I reached out with the Force, but there was nothing. Emptiness. A void, in place of the Light I had become so dependent upon. And it was then that I knew: I alone had survived the great Purge. I wanted to scream, I wanted to tear my teeth out, I wanted…” He inhales, sharp and ragged. “I didn’t know what I wanted, only to be unmade. Erased. And I wept.”

She knows the feeling. She knows it like an old friend. Her voice is little more than whisper as she asks, “What did you do?”

“I went home,” he says, “Tatooine. Blood calls out for blood, and my people were re-claiming their stolen lands. With them, I found a kind of purpose again. I clung to it like a rock in a boiling sea, and I tried to forget, to leave it behind. But horror… It can smell you. Like a hound, it’ll snap at your heels. And no matter how far you run, it will always catch you.”

“And what caught you, Krayt?” the _Sith’ari_ asks, realizing too late that her tone had sounded combative. Goading. It had not been her intent.

“Kenobi.” He mutters the name as though it’s very presence on his tongue could poison him. “Kenobi, that… He could sense the Shadow in me, even as I tried to deny it myself. And as we fought in the desert, I— _Maker_ , I longed for death. I wanted it, my mind begged for it, but he could not bring himself to kill me. Instead, he took my arm, and left me to die.”

“The Tusken are a hard people,” she whispers, “They’d have no respect for a one-armed warrior. And cybernetics… They mean nothing to cultures such as ours.”

“Correct,” he sighs, dejected at the very memory. “My exile from the tribe was as swift as it was complete.”

“You’re like me, then,” she says, “Clinging to a memory that has no want of you. In the eyes of our kin, we are not what was intended.”

He shifts against her back. “Yes. I suppose that’s true.” And then, all at once, the warmth of him fades from her back. “Niha, look at me.”

She turns to find that he’s turned, too; facing her, now, legs still crossed. The Empress follows suit, gazing unafraid into his mismatched eyes. And Krayt holds that gaze, unwavering, as he speaks.

“It is impossible to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror really is. Horror has a face. It is Kenobi, it is Sidious. It’s the gaping maw of a Krayt dragon. And you must make a friend of horror. Horror, terror, agony… They must be your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared. And there is no place in the heart of a Sith for fear.”

“I have seen horror.”

“I know you have,” he’s quick to reply, “Both of us have traversed death and thereby conquered it. And we have returned with our power multiplied. The Dark side of the Force lives and manifests itself through us _,_ Niha. We are but vessels, reaching into the Darkness to send whispers to all who serve it. All who serve us.”

With a sharp exhale, he suddenly leans forward, pressing his forehead to hers. He wraps a hand around the back of her neck, holding her close.

“The Vong were cruel captors. I wished for death, venturing into the Unknown Regions like that, I sought a warrior’s death. But instead… They inflicted such agonies upon me that I thought, for a time, that I had died. That such pain was to be my eternity. But death was an empty promise. A reward dangled before me, as though I were an animal. First it was the waiting, always and endless. A form of time inexpressible. Seconds stretched across expectation, and always endless. But there, in the midst of their torture, I found enlightenment.” Again, he gasps, his breath rattling through the cage of his chest and into hers. “Like a slug, straight back between my eyes, I— My god, the genius. The _genius_ of what Sidious had orchestrated. The _will_ that it must have taken, that simultaneous slaughter of _every_ … _Single_ … _Jedi_. Perfect, genuine, crystalline, complete. Pure... Pure annihilation. And the Jedi, for all of their wisdom and piety, all of their hypocrisy and their morality theater, they… They were blind to it! The power that must have taken, the _will_ to carry out such a plot! And then I realized… I realized that he was stronger than me. Because Sidious was no monster, he was only a man. A Human man, with Human weakness. Capable of such horror, but mortal. Killable.”

“I killed him,” she quavers, and she can feel a kind of need begin to claw away at her. Her mind, her body, every atom of who she is has begun to lean in, craning for this man’s approval. For his acknowledgement.

“You did,” he says, “You succeeded where so many thousands failed. And I know what it cost you.”

“Kylo,” she impulsively blurts.

“You were a dyad,” Krayt says, “That I believe. Not, perhaps, in the way you had hoped in your shared youth. And so, I do feel the loss in you, Niha.”

He places a hand on her chest, then, and she sees it: Armitage clawing at his throat, the toes of his boots scuffing along the floor in the Throne room as Kylo lifts him higher and higher. The betrayal boiling up in her chest, the terror pounding in her temples. And then the red flash of her blades. Automatic. Instinctive. Frightened. The numb shock coursing through her veins as his head rolls away from his shoulders, and he collapses in a useless heap at her feet.

_It’s good that Krayt saw it_ , she thinks. _Maybe that will get him to stop speaking to me._

“You did what had to be done,” Krayt reassures, fingertips pressing hard into her skin, “As did I.”

“As do all who have ever truly served the balance.”

He nods. “Precisely.”

* * *

The Emperor storms through the corridors of his palace on Coruscant. They’re running late, again and this time it really, really, _really_ is Annihila’s fault. His Sovereign Protectors are assembled and waiting, his things packed. And she’s… _Somewhere_ on this damnable planet. Not sitting on his throne, not hanging in the Council Spire, not moving through combat forms on the Contemplation Balcony. Not even translating texts in the Archive.

Grumbling under his breath, he stomps into the residence, tugging at the collar of his uniform, tearing his gloves off in a huff. She’s been _like this_ , lately. Dark and solitary and independent. Like she was when they’d met. Like she was when her name had been Ap’lek. They’re accomplishing a lot for it, strengthening and growing the Empire more with each passing day. But the return to this demeanor of hers has taken some getting used to.

When he walks past the open door to the washroom, he jumps and yelps in surprise.

The Empress is reclined in the massive, stone tub, eyes closed. But, in place of water, she’s sunk up to her neck in thick, red liquid. By the sharp, metallic smell, he needn’t ask what it is.

“Heart of my heart,” she greets serenely.

“What are you doing?” he asks wearily, “Where did that come from?”

Her eyes blink open, and it takes her a moment to focus on his face. “I don’t understand the question,” she replies, “It’s blood.”

“ _Whose_ blood?”

Her eyes wander a little, as if searching for the answer. “Well, I suppose it belongs to me, now.”

“Annihila…” He rubs at his temples.

“You ought to join me, my Starkiller,” she coaxes.

He bristles with offense. “I’ll do no such thing. Get out of there, at once. Let’s go.”

“We’ll go when _I_ say we’ll go,” she dismisses, closing her eyes again.

“We’re going to be late.”

“This is our Galaxy,” she sighs, sinking deeper into her blood, “’Late’ only begins _after_ we arrive.”

“No, I’m not playing these games with you today, Annihila!”

The burst of anger she feels surprises even her. Her hands clench into fists and she rises in a snarling fury. Naked, dripping with blood. He takes a quick step back, anxious to keep some distance between them. He’s wearing _white_.

_I like games,_ she reminds him, eyes traveling the length of him so hungrily. _And I’ll ruin more than your_ h'nilae gatrektu _outfit_.

He scoffs indignantly, rolls his eyes. But he can hide nothing from her. She knows there’s something else, there, behind the façade.

“Fine,” she concedes through gritted teeth, eyes glinting with something deadly, “ _Fine_. I will meet you outside, and we will go.”

Washing the blood from her skin feels a little like washing away her own skin.

No matter. All good things, after all. And she is anxious to bring her Emperor to Korriban, despite his detestable mood.

It is with great pride that the _Sith’ari_ dons her armor. For the first time in years, she will not submit to being dressed her _Rizûti_. Today, she will do it herself. Like a warrior. She straps the black iron plating to her shins, lacing the breastplate tight. Dons her long, split skirt. Her wraithlike Susurra-weave cloak comes next, and then her mesh cowl. And then, impulsively, she decides to paint her face. Not only that but, for the first time in nearly a decade, she blackens her teeth.

Like Maul. Like a Dathomirian. For though she is not preparing for battle, she does feel like a warrior. Today, she is a Sith.

Armitage will throw a fit over it, of course, but that will only add to the fun.

Carrying nothing but her blades, the _Sith’ari_ strides out onto the landing docks. There she finds the Emperor, looking even more sullen than he’d been before. He’s standing beside a pile of his luggage, flanked by a cadre of his Sovereign Protectors.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asks, pointing to the T-3c parked on the dock.

“That’s my ship,” she pointedly replies.

“Where’s the _Buzzard_? Your Knights?”

“Kuruk and Cardo have taken the _Buzzard_ to the Ascendency,” she informs him, “To pick up a Third-Sighted girl from A’acoth’o. The rest of the Knights are on Korriban, overseeing the academy.”

He stammers for a moment, confused. “Are we taking the _Maul_ , then?”

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. We’re taking my T-3c,” she says, stepping up to open the door.

“What?” he demands, “It’s a sardine can!”

“You don’t need to bring your guards,” she calmly explains, “You’re traveling _with me_ to the Sith stronghold.”

“But my wardrobe!” he protests weakly, following her up the ramp. And then he grimaces against sudden and sharp regret.

She whips around, looking him square in the eye. “We’re spending _one night_ on the planet, and it was your idea to begin with.”

He grimaces. “Annihila, your _teeth_ —”

“This is the way it’s happening,” she snaps, “Stop acting like a princess.”

“ _Acting like a_ —” He has to stifle the urge for an indignant gasp, knowing that it would only strengthen her case. “Why don’t _you_ start acting like an _Empress_!”

“Because I’m no Empress,” she snarls, lunging for his face with her teeth bared. Her nose nearly touching his, she snarls, “I am the _Sith’ari_.”

His eyes are locked on hers, unmoving. And his lips, those deeply pink, generous lips, stop just slightly parted around a word that never comes. His gaze flits down to her mouth, and a hitching breath escapes his throat instead, sudden and short.

Her brow furrows. “What is this?” she asks, suddenly suspicious, “Are you trying to fuck me, right now? What?”

“No,” he argues, indignant.

Annihila rolls her eyes, striding for the cockpit to begin the pre-flight. “Armitage, you have 60 seconds to re-board this ship with precisely _one_ bag.”

Hux straightens up, boldly challenging, “Or what?”

She takes her seat, and begins flicking switches and stirring the engines. “59… 58… 57…”

“God damn you,” he grumbles, storming back out onto the dock.

56 seconds later, the Emperor returns, huffing with effort and frustration as he hauls his overnight bag onto the ship. He throws himself dramatically into the co-pilot’s seat, still pouting, and the ship lifts off.

Despite himself, despite how angry she’s making him right now, he can’t tear his gaze away from her. He slumps in his seat, arms crossed, and watches in silence as she pilots the ship. Leaned back in her seat, legs spread, one long-nailed hand cast so casually over the yoke. She looks young, like this. None of the vain, Imperial trappings he’s forced her into; no crowns and jewels and gowns. She’s clad in her battle-beaten armor and wraith-like cloak, with half of her hair pulled up and away from her painted face. She looks like she had when they met; all that’s missing is the mask.

And he does not miss the mask.

More than that, she _feels_ like that woman, again. Dark and shrouded, the air seeming to crackle and pressurize around her. The raw power ebbs from her so freely, yet she holds it perfectly within her control. The seductive dichotomy of his _devsta’rak_.

She casts him a sidelong glance as she lines them up for the jump to lightspeed. “What?”

“I’ve missed seeing you like this,” he admits softly.

The corner of her mouth twitches with a smile. “Like what?”

“Stripped down. Real.”

“I’ve been real the entire time,” she points out, flicking switches to set course, giving the hyperdrive an experimental stir.

“I know,” he quickly corrects, fidgeting slightly, “I simply mean to say that… It’s beautiful. I’m still… Kriffing _furious_ with you, for the _gallons of actual blood_ you hauled into our residence, and the… That thoroughly unnecessary _princess_ comment. But I do love you, all the same.” In a huff, he sinks deeper into his seat, avoiding her gaze.

She smiles, self-satisfied, and then the stars outside begin to stretch and blur, and they’re thrust into the twisting, blue tunnel of hyperspace.

“Does this mean you’re finally going to fuck me in a transport ship?” she abruptly asks.

He scoffs, _hating_ how well she knows him. “Fly the ship, Annihila.”

“The ship flies itself.” With a beckoning curl of her fingers, she unclips the harness from his chest. “Get over here.”

He tried to act indignant as he stands, but he can hide nothing from her. “If you turn _my_ teeth black, I’m leaving you on Korriban.”

* * *

Armitage Hux sits straddling his wife’s lap, wielding so delicately the stick of red coal. With a careful, steady hand, he re-traces the lines leading down from her lips. And as he does, she watches his face. The gentle furrow of his brow as he concentrates, the subtle narrowing of his lips. He’s mimicking her expression, whether he realizes it or not. Outside, the ship is still enveloped by the blur of hyperspace.

“Thank you for doing this,” she suddenly says.

He jumps in surprise, quickly jerking his hand away. “Sit still, damn you,” he grumbles, taking her by the jaw, “I’ll point out that I was given little choice in the matter, as I’m apparently to blame for ruining your blasted paint in the first place. So, I hardly—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” she interrupts, “I mean to thank you for coming to this place with me. I’m proud of what Krayt and I have built, here, and I’m thrilled to show you the fruits of our labor. I’ve wrought so much chaos and destruction in the name of our Empire, and this is the first thing I’ve ever _built_ for us. It’s a strange feeling.”

The Emperor opens his mouth as if to speak, and then his eyes flit away.

“What?”

“I only…” he hesitates, “I don’t know if I’m overly fond of Lord Krayt, darling.”

“You owe him the life of you Empress,” she reminds him.

He’s quick to interject. “I know. Believe me, I do understand. But…”

“But?”

He shakes it off. “Nothing. Never mind.”

“No, you tell me,” she coaxes, taking his hands from her face, “I value your counsel above all else.”

“I don’t think he is who he claims to be,” he finally blurts, “Despite what your Chiss may say.”

She gives him a funny kind of smile. “Well, _our_ Chiss…”

“Annihila, I’m quite serious,” he impresses, “I can… I can feel how shrouded he is to you, how opaque. And if he can conceal his intentions from _you_ , then—"

“I know, my Starkiller.” She sighs deeply, taking his face in her hands. “I know. And it is for that reason, among many others, that I only ever want to call him our ally.”

“Just be careful, darling,” he cautions, “Please?”

She cranes up to press her lips to his. “I will.”

Hux is still straightening his clothing and fussing obsessively over all the tiny details of his uniform when they punch through the atmosphere.

“Now, this is a decently respectable place,” he appraises, peering out through the windscreen, “No damnable lightening, one can actually see the sun.”

But Exegol is a low standard of comparison. The surface of Korriban is little more than a red and windswept desert, punctuated by sheer, sandstone cliffs and dizzying rock spires. Very little can be seen growing in the sand. The days are harsh and blistering, and the nights are bitterly cold.

“Don’t ever let yourself get too comfortable, here,” Annihila cautions, “The call of Korriban is strong, but it is the call of the dead. And we are very much alive.”

She swoops low over the Valley of the Dark Lords, slowing to pass between the double-line of massive statues. Her forbearers. The powerful men and women whose footsteps she so dutifully follows as she walks this path. They are welcoming her home.

Up ahead, at the end of the valley, lies an unglamorous arrival port; nothing more than a small landing platform amidst the spires of red rock. And, carved into the terminus of the canyon, lies the ancient Sith Academy. It had taken months for her _Rizûti_ to dig it out, even with considerable help from her and Krayt. But now it stands proud, once more; returned to its former glory.

Krayt is waiting for them, when they land. “ _Ri Sith’ari_ ,” he greets, bowing respectfully as they disembark, “Your Imperial Majesty.”

Annihila draws him up by the back of the neck, pressing her forehead to his. He returns the gesture, clapping a hand around her own neck.

“ _Ki trorin,”_ she acknowledges.

“ _Dro rai krajotimas, mis aras ûrûadasi,”_ he replies.

Hux nods briskly. “Krayt.”

At once, the Sith Lord releases his mistress and takes hold of Hux, repeating the gesture on him. The Emperor bristles, casting his wife a kind of baffled look.

_Calm down, Armitage_ , she gently admonishes. _He doesn’t bite_.

Hux clears his throat. “Yes, thank you, Krayt, that’ll do fine.” He pats the man awkwardly on the shoulder, squirming away.

“Where are my beauties?” Annihila asks, linking her arm through her husband’s and leading him across the landing pad towards the Academy.

“In the arena,” Krayt relays, “Anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

As they enter the structure, Hux can hardly contain his awe. It’s a massive and ornate space, carved directly into the sandstone cliffside. A wide fissure runs through the rock overhead, sending a shaft of sunlight streaming down over them.

Up ahead, in the center of a vast, open courtyard, stands a massive statue. A woman with a tattooed face and long hair, wielding a pair of lightsabers. A Sith Lord.

But it is, most decidedly, _not_ Darth Annihila.

“I thought it wise to honor the memory of XoXaan,” Krayt explains conversationally, “It is, after all, her soul that forms the Vergence beneath our feet.”

The _Sith’ari_ shows no outward signs of offense. Her face is calm, her limbs still and sure as she releases her Emperor. But it is fury that she is feeling, nonetheless. Both men can feel it. Hux cringes back in grim anticipation of what he knows is coming.

Annihila strides ahead and, with a casual wave of her hand, the statue topples. A web of cracks snakes through the stone, and after a moment, it falls to pieces. The noise is cacophonous, echoing off the stone walls. The pile of rubble spreads out before the Empress, chunks rolling and spinning across the ground, entirely unidentifiable as what they had once been. And then, by the dark and terrifying Magick that shifts and pulses beneath her skin, the stone ruins burst into flame.

All the while, the Empress never slows her pace, never looks back. Without a moment’s hesitation, she steps up onto the rubble, walking directly through the center of the inferno. Slow. Deliberate. The flames lick up around her, and swallow her from their sight.

“Come,” she calls back.

Krayt is seething, Hux can feel it. So, he claps him sympathetically on the back, and casts him a gentle, almost patronizing look. “Really, Krayt,” he whispers, “You ought to have known better.”

“Apparently,” he snarls, eyes downcast.

_Don’t you dare comfort him, Armitage_ , she snaps, her voice echoing sharply through his skull. _Take your hand off him at once._

The Emperor does as he’s told, and the two men cautiously skirt their way around the bonfire to catch up.

Together, the trio strides into a looming, stone arena. They enter on the middle level, something of a balcony overhanging the dirt combat floor. Up ahead, Vicrul is leaning against a metal railing.

“ _Ki trorin,”_ Annihila greets, wrapping him in an embrace.

“ _Ri Sith’ari_.”

She peers over the edge. “How are they?”

“Doing well,” he appraises, “All viable candidates, in my opinion. I know Ushar agrees.”

“We’ll see about that,” Krayt murmurs under his breath.

Vicrul rolls his eyes. “Lord Krayt disagrees. Loudly and frequently.” And then, in the privacy of their minds, he tells her, _I’m bloody glad you’re here, Niha._

She gives him a subtle nod. _I’m glad I’m here, too. We’ll talk about that statue, later._

_Damn right, we will._

The Emperor joins his wife by the railing. Down below, a dozen or so _tyro_ are paired up, sparring with blunt, durasteel training weapons. Ushar and Trudgen walk between them, barking commands and correcting form. The room echoes with shouts, with the sharp, percussive clacking of blows deflected, and the wet, dense packing sounds of blows landed.

“They don’t have lightsabers,” Hux remarks.

Krayt scoffs in disbelief.

“The construction of a lightsaber is a sacred rite of passage,” she patiently explains, “They have to earn the Kyber, before they can call themselves _dzayari_.”

“Padawan,” Krayt translates.

The burst of anger from the Empress is instantaneous, and palpable. But again, she maintains her composure.

Hux knows that times like this are when she is to be most feared.

The words slip from her lips on a deadly hiss. “Utter that language within the walls of this Temple again, and they’ll be the last words you ever speak.”

Krayt rankles, and opens his mouth to make some sort of case for himself, only for Vicrul to take him by the arm and wrench him aside. “Watch it,” he murmurs conspiratorially, “She’s been wondering what your heart tastes like since the moment you all walked in here.”

Krayt wrenches his arm away. “I know she has.”

“Then stop giving her reasons to take a taste!”

“Why not give them real weapons?” Hux asks, still watching the trainees.

Annihila laughs knowingly. “If I were to give them real weapons, I’d have no more _tyro_ left.”

He casts her a questioning look.

“Our Order is fueled by hatred and fury,” she explains, “For that reason, I never want any of them to have felt what it is to hold back. This way, they can still learn to harness the power of their anger, and feel the sanctifying punishment of pain. They can beat each other bloody, break each other’s bones to splinters, and be ready to play again tomorrow.”

Behind them, Krayt scoffs.

“When you’re in charge, you can let them tear each other apart,” she snaps over her shoulder, “But we can’t very well build a Sith Order atop a pile of corpses, can we? I refuse to cling to the old ways. Tradition for tradition’s sake is _death_.”

“And when they earn the saber?” Hux asks, trying desperately to steer her away from the brewing confrontation.

She shakes her head, leaning out over the railing. “None of them have made it that far, yet. When they do, I’ll send them off with Krayt, to watch and learn. See if they can hold their own, as they take their first steps along the path of the Sith.”

The Emperor’s eyes scan over the _tyro_. It’s such a strange assemblage of creatures: Human, Twi’lek, even a couple of Zabraks. Male and female. But all young. All beautiful. Just as he imagines the Chiss girl will be.

“Who do you think will be the first?” he asks.

Annihila looks over her shoulder to Vicrul and Krayt. “Who’s our best?”

“H’voc,” Krayt answers, and Vicrul nods in agreement.

The Empress turns back to the arena. “I want to see him.” She raises her hands high and claps. “ _Ki tyro!”_

The sparring grinds to a halt, all eyes upturned.

Krayt steps up beside her, barking, “ _Rinkti an ri Sith’ari!”_ like only a Tusken can, and they fall to their knees.

“I can speak for myself,” she scolds quietly, and with no further ceremony, vaults over the edge of the balcony.

“Dammit all,” Hux grumbles.

Vicrul beckons sympathetically to his Emperor. “Stairs are this way.”

The Sith’ari walks between the kneeling figures of her _tyro,_ looking them over. “Which one among you is H’voc?”

There’s a long span of silence, and she looks to Trudgen. He whistles sharply, pointing to a man kneeling beside a Lethan Twi’lek. Slowly, he rises to meet his Empress. For the first time, she sees that he’s Nagai.

“ _Sosûtai, ri Sith’ari_ ,” he announces, gaze fixed on a point in the distance.

Annihila walks over, giving him a kind of appraising look as she approaches. Measuring the worth of him. He’s pale-skinned, lean, and long-limbed like she is, though he stands more than a head taller. His hair is long and black, and he’s wearing half of it pulled back from his face. Like she is. He’s dressed only in a set of black suspender trousers, as are most of the men on the floor, and his torso bears a galaxy of blue and yellow bruises.

But not nearly as many as his classmates.

Hux, Vicrul, and Krayt round the corner at the bottom of the stairs, and pause to watch the exchange.

“Oh,” Hux remarks softly, “Excellent. Vicrul, would you please make sure that I don’t get the two of them mixed up, and end up crawling into bed with the wrong one?”

Vicrul laughs appreciatively. “I think you overestimate me, Armitage.”

Krayt furrows his brow, scowling at the Emperor. “You can’t tell your own wife apart from that male Nagai?”

Hux casts him a baffled expression. “It’s a joke, Krayt. _Stars_ , don’t they tell jokes on Tatooine?”

“No.”

Across the room, Annihila reaches up to take the man by the chin, tilting his face down towards her. “H’voc.”

His eyes, deep grey, finally meet hers. “Yes, _ri’ Sith’ari.”_

“Where are you from?”

“Nagi, my Lord.”

“And your occupation before you came here?”

“I was a warlord, _ri Sith’ari.”_

She nods, taking in the sum of everything he is. The things he says, in combination with the things she can see and sense. “My brothers tell me you’re the best of the recruits.”

A strange kind of smile tugs at the corners of his lips, gone as quickly as it had come. But she catches it. “It is an honor to hear so, _ri Sith’ari_.”

“Show me,” she commands, stepping back and flinging her cloak away.

His confidence wavers. “My Lord?”

“Show me,” she repeats, unbuckling her breastplate. She nods to Trudgen, and with a clap of his hands and an order in High Sith, the rest of the recruits pick up their weapons and scramble from the floor.

“Where is your weapon?” she asks, casting her breastplate aside.

The Emperor scoffs under his breath, at the sight of his wife in only her black bandeau and suspender skirt. “Annihila, _really_ …”

“No, that’s good,” Vicrul appraises, “She’s making it fair. If he doesn’t have armor, she shouldn’t wear any, either.”

“She’s a good leader to them,” Krayt agrees, nodding sternly, “A good teacher.”

Hux cocks an eyebrow at the Sith Lord, mildly surprised by that glowing assessment. He’s beginning to understand why Annihila finds him so vexing.

“She looks like Ventress,” Krayt adds.

“Yeah,” Vicrul laughs. “Better haircut, though.”

“Your weapon,” Annihila repeats, opening her hands to allow a pair of training swords to find their places in her grip. She gives them a few experimental turns, feeling the weight and balance.

H’voc is the very picture of reluctance. His pulse tugs insistently at his neck, shaking hands clenching and unclenching. But after a moment, a durasteel staff, long as he is tall, flies into his open palm. Half of it is wrapped in grip tape. “ _Ri Sith’ari_ —”

“Stop.” She gives him a dismissive wave. “If you manage to kill me with a stick, then it would seem that you were the One Sith of prophecy all along. So, do you best. Don’t hold back. Show me what you’re worth.”

Krayt exhales a laugh through his nose, settling back against the wall to watch the events unfold.

“That’s not what I’m worried about, my Lord,” the Nagai admits, tentatively settling into his footing.

Annihila smiles ravenously. “Then you have my word, H’voc of Nagi: I will not kill you. Today.”

With no further warning, she charges for him. Twin blades paired, she closes the space between them with a graceful leap. He whips his staff overhead in an expert move, and the force of the weapons’ collision sends a painful vibration up through his arm.

And then her left blade cracks against his ribs.

He falls away from her, gasping and winded.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” she says confidently, “ _Misini_.”

Again, she leaps for him. This time, he blocks three of her blows with the bare end of his staff, before he makes the mistake of lunging low. She slings one leg around his neck, wrapping it across his chest. And when he straightens up, he finds her perched upon his shoulders, with her blades crossed beneath his chin.

“ _Kriff_ ,” he pants as she leaps from him, weightless and agile.

“Good,” she praises, pacing around him like a predator, sizing up her next attack, “Good. Adaptation, improvisation, but… It’s not your technique that’s holding you back.”

His eyes dart around, trying to make sense of it.

“That was four moves. Give me six.”

“Six,” he repeats, tossing his hair from his face, “ _Char, Sith’ari_.”

“She’s got a leg up on him, dual-wielding like that,” Vicrul remarks to no one in particular.

Hux decides he’ll bite. “You think so? But the reach on that staff, and the sheer power of a two-handed—”

“Reach won’t matter, she’s too quick for him. And a two-handed blow doesn’t mean dick if you can’t, you know… _Land a blow_. Plus, she can read him, but I don’t think he can read her.”

“She’s not reading him,” Krayt snaps, “And she _has a leg up_ because she’s the _Sith’ari_.”

Vicrul rolls his eyes.

For the third time, Annihila charges for the Nagai. By now, they are such a blur of black and ashen-white that the Emperor can hardly keep track.

“How do you know she’s not reading him?” Hux asks idly.

“Because I’m reading her.”

After a few seconds, they see Annihila slide on the ground between his legs. Her sabers whip against the backs of his knees, and he falls, exclaiming in shock and pain. She springs to her feet behind him to crack him on the back if the neck with her right blade, for good measure.

“Nine,” H’voc pants, a hint of fierce pride in his voice.

“Oh, he just wants to hold her attention,” Krayt verbalizes, “He wants her approval, now, more than anything.”

Vicrul sucks his teeth in disapproval. “Yeah. Yeah, I see that.”

“She’ll set him right.”

“ _No_ ,” Annihila barks, watching the frustration twitch her opponent’s face, “Stop that. You’re better than this, act like it.”

He opens his mouth to argue, and she takes a kind of warning lunge for him. He withdraws.

“I feel your anger,” she acknowledges, pacing around him, “That’s a start. But you need to hate me. Turn me into whatever you must: your parents, your old foes, some girl who denied you, but _open yourself_!”

He shakes his head, pressing his eyes shut.

“Oh, he doesn’t like that, does he?” Hux smirks.

“ _Open_!” she roars, “Reach into the Dark! Why haven’t you beaten me, yet? I thought you were the best!”

“ _Because_ —"

“I don’t want your excuses, I want your _fury_! I want twelve moves, twel—”

The word is drowned out by a feral roar, and at once, H’voc has whipped around and launched himself towards his opponent. For the first time, he is on the offensive, and it gives him precisely the edge he needs. He wields his weapon with unhinged fury and deadly precision, and the Empress has to back-step in defense. It takes both of her blades and all of her wit and dexterity to hold him at bay. Desperate, feeling the instinct for self-preservation tighten around her ribcage, she lacerates her way into the mind of her opponent. Which is cheating, she knows, but the advantage barely helps. Only by the skin of her teeth does she manage to block his blows.

And then something changes in the Force. Annihila detaches from her body and watches, awestruck, as H’voc of Nagi roars into the void, and it roars back: at him, _into_ him, the droning noise vibrating through every cell, every atom of his being. The shadow splits him open, rends him apart, and then makes him whole. His pain leaves him, and with it, his weakness. All of the doubt and fear and frailty keeping him tethered to limitation. The Dark Side sees him, and accepts him as its own.

Annihila falls to her back. H’voc lunges for her, staff whipping through the air. For a moment, she panics. She raises her left blade in frantic defense, and sends the other on a deadly path towards his neck.

And then everything falls still. The only sounds to be heard are the fading echoes of their vicious war cries, and their heavy, ragged breathing.

The dust settles, and the Emperor exhales a gasp.

H’voc’s blade is hovering against Annihila’s neck, and her blade is hovering against his.

Something inside of him has changed forever. She can see it in his face, like hers and Krayt’s. He’s hardened. The light has gone from behind his eyes, replaced by the kind of dark and depthless quality possessed only by wild animals.

He has touched the Dark Side, and it has touched him. And here, now, there is only the great void, ringed in painful light like an eclipse. The unyielding, terrible power of the Dark Side filling its endless, hungering depths like blood in a body.

“Beautiful,” she pants, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Well done.”

He withdraws at once, reeling from what just happened. She can feel the aftershock coursing through him, even still. The staff falls from his hand to clatter loudly against the ground, and she can see that his hands are shaking. But his eyes do not change.

“Forgive me, _ri Sith’ari_.”

“No.”

She casts her own blades aside and reaches up for him. And when his fingers wrap around her wrist to pull her to her feet, the shaking in his hands stills. Their eyes meet, only for a split second. She feels something spark within him. And then he withdraws quickly, bowing his head in respect.

“You passed through the veil, then,” Annihila whispers, “Did you feel it?”

“Yes,” he murmurs.

“Krayt?” she calls over her shoulder, “Did you feel it?”

“ _Char, Sith’ari.”_

She nods, turning back to the Nagai. “The Shadow has made it’s measure of you, and you have been found worthy.”

H’voc’s gaze rises to meet hers, the expression in his deep, grey eyes so frank and self-evident.

“Lord Krayt,” she announces, “I think it’s time this man held a lightsaber, don’t you?”

“I think you’re right, _Sith’ari_ ,” Krayt replies, and the Empress can sense no hesitation in him. He is as sure of this as she is.

“H’voc of Nagi,” she says, extending her hand to him once more, “Welcome to the Sith Eternal _._ ”

As he takes her hand, and she pulls him into an embrace, the arena erupts into cheers. It’s an unhinged chorus of war cries from every corner of the Galaxy, howled in multiple tongues; the feral stomping of feet and clacking of weapons. For a moment, it’s as though the Force itself is swelling up all around them, rising like a black wave to galvanize this moment of honor and glory.

“Thank you, Darth Annihila,” H’voc murmurs, though only they can hear it in the chaos.

“No,” she whispers into his ear, “Thank you.”

“ _Alright,_ you animals!!” Vicrul commands, clapping his hands for quiet, “Secure that shit!”

The trainees fall silent, looking to him expectantly.

“What the hell are you standing around for?” he demands, “You know the drill! It’s meditation, and then texts! Anyone _not_ in the Archives in 60-standard gets their fingers fed to Lord Krayt!”

A ripple of cautious laughter moves across the _tyro_.

“You think that’s a joke?” Krayt barks, “ _Akchij_!”

With that, the trainees scramble from the arena. Annihila watches as H’voc’s eyes flit upwards, and he exchanges a proud smile with the Lethan Twi’lek he’d been sparring with. Some words pass between their minds, in the silence. It makes Annihila smile.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into them,” Ushar remarks bitterly, stepping over to embrace his Empress, “Pushing the limits because mum’s here, I suppose.”

“No, it’s good,” she reassures him, kissing him on the cheeks, “I always want them to push the limits. At the very least, it’ll keep _you_ hard.”

Krayt, Vicrul, and Hux make their way over as well, her Knight scooping up her discarded cloak and armor on his way.

“An exemplary performance,” Hux praises the Nagai, “There are few in this Galaxy who could manage a stalemate with the One Sith.”

H’voc bows deeply. “Thank you, your Imperial Majesty.”

“We had a stalemate, once, didn’t we Niha?” Trudgen remarks.

Annihila rolls her eyes, taking her breastplate back from Vicrul. “You fail to mention, my darling, that we were 17, and I was drunk.”

The entire party laughs good-naturedly, and she watches out of the corner of her eye as H’voc so tentatively and earnestly joins in. His heart is glowing, she can sense the warmth ebbing from him. He feels as though he’s been pulled into orbit around the brilliant, celestial body that is his _Sith’ari_. He feels like he’s one of them.

“Come.” She flings her cloak back over her shoulders, and claps him proudly on the back. “To Albrekh.”

* * *

That evening, Darth Annihila and Darth Krayt watch with pride and quiet thrill as H’voc of Nagi activates the blade of his lightsaber for the first time. It’s long, like his training staff, with a braided, Sarrassian iron hilt the full length of the blade itself. A dark and ravenous smile spreads across his face as he gives it a few experimental turns, watching the red glow pass so hypnotically through the room, listening to the hum. Feeling the heat.

“From now on, you’re Krayt’s shadow,” the Empress instructs, as captivated by his face as he is by the blade. “Where he goes, you go. What he says, you do.”

“ _Char, Sith’ari_.”

“This is not warlordism,” Krayt cautions, “This is a path far darker and narrower than that. But the rewards… _Limitless_.”

“He knows,” Annihila reassures him.

The Nagai nods. “I do, my Lords.”

“You are a Sith,” Krayt says, “You must understand that blood and breath are only elements, undergoing change to fuel your radiance. Just as the source of a fire must burn.”

“Above all, remember this,” she says, placing her hands over his as they grip the hilt of his blade. “We must be powerful, beautiful, and without regret.”

Something shivers through his skin, passing to her before dissipating into the air.

“ _Char, Sith’ari.”_

* * *

“In the beginning, there was only the Void. It was an emptiness so complete, so perfect, that no words in any tongue, yours nor mine, could ever truly describe it. Perhaps such words existed once, but none now live who remember. Language is a pale and feeble thing, and it was unnecessary, then. For in the very act of describing a thing, of imposing imperfect definitions upon something so perfect, it becomes more than nothing... Which the Void was not. The Void simply was. No reason or agenda. No purpose. No feeling. It simply existed, an end unto itself.”

Annihila stands before the low, circular table, surrounded by her seated _tyro_. Hux to her right. H’voc to her left, saber slung across his back, and Krayt beside him. All eyes are fixed on the _Sith’ari_ , the air hanging thick with silent adoration. Devotion.

“Void begot Darkness. And in Darkness, a perfect peace was found. Cold, unfeeling, complete. With that peace came power. It is the power you wield, now.”

Even Hux cannot help but fall under her spell. She is beautiful, like this. It is a thing he has never witnessed, before. _He_ is the orator among them. The figurehead leader. She’s a soldier. A warrior. But this seems a role she was made for. Her followers lean in, hanging on her every word. Hungry for more.

“But nothing can remain that pure of purpose forever. Perfection is, by its very nature, an impermanent thing. Perfection is a moment. It is the moment for which we all should strive. To be flawless is to be fleeting. And so it was with the Void. Driven by entropy, it dissolved inevitably into chaos. And when a perfect Void is no longer perfect, its _nothingness_ becomes an unshakable _somethingness_.

At first it was but a glimmer,” she says, closing her eyes, “A miniscule flaw in the still emptiness that was reality. But as with everything, that glimmer grew, took on a tenuous type of form, a purpose of its own. It evolved. It learned, and gave itself a name, and with that name, it was defined. The name it chose was Light.”

All around, the _tyro_ hiss softly, sneering at the notion.

Darth Annihila holds up a hand, and at her command, they still. “The board was set. Darkness was born of the Void, and Light was born of Darkness. Causal. Cyclical. These two elements were created to be the antithetical, and so it is impossible for them to coexist in space, in time. It is in their very natures to be forever in conflict, and it is this conflict which defines them. But just as they cannot exist together, neither can they exist apart.”

She opens her eyes, looks over her warriors. Each gasps in turn as her gaze passes over them. Craning for her attention. Desperate for it.

“This is our struggle, _ki ardira_ ” she says, “Basic, molecular, elemental. _Dro ri jina'tis kots ri rokatsa. Is rokatsa, nuniji isatru. Ajutu'ija ri dtikona, oir jina'tis tadti' wau_.” (Through the Darkness breaks the Light. Through the Light, unending pain. Deify the wretched ones until the Darkness comes again.)

On cue, the pounding of feet and fists begins to rise all around. The feral chant: “ _Dro rai krajotimas, mis aras ûrûadasi!”_ (Through our wounds, we are one!) Over and over, louder and louder. Like a flame, growing and spreading to set the Galaxy alight. Burn it to ash.

“Fear not the Dark!” she cries out over the cacophony, “And feast!”

They cheer. They howl and clap and shout her name. The love her.

As she takes her seat, Hux leans over to whisper in her ear. “I hope you’re not counting me among your wretched ones, Ani.” Playful. Proud.

She smiles. “My Starkiller, your High Sith is improving.”

* * *

It’s late at night, and the _Sith’ari_ is alone in the training arena of her Academy. She grips a pair of training blades balanced upright on their points. Arms extended, back curved at an obscene angle, legs craned over like the tail of a scorpion. A contortive balancing act. All around her, the loose dirt is rising into tiny, perfect spirals.

Armitage is asleep. She’d told him she’d join him soon, and he said he’d try to stay awake, but he’s asleep. So endearingly Human, sometimes.

_“You’re smarter than this, Nul. I know you are.”_

The voice nearly makes her fall. She grits her teeth, and for the first time, she acknowledges him aloud. “Get _away_ ,” she hisses, screwing her face up in concentration.

His voice is a painful echo, ringed in searing blue: “ _No_.”

Maddening. “There has to be a spell,” she snarls, “Some rite or enchantment to keep you _out_ , and by my blades, I’ll learn it.”

_“You’ll have to listen, sometime.”_

“You did well, today,” Krayt announces. The sound of his voice echoing through the empty arena startles her. It’s an uncharacteristic lack of subtlety from, she thinks. Or perhaps it is characteristic. Hard to tell, with that man.

“Strange praise,” she exhales, slowly unfurling from her contortion to set her feet back on solid ground. “Coming from you.”

“Why?” he challenges softly, making a slow approach. Predatory, despite himself.

The Empress sighs in frustration. “Because I sense, more often than not, that you hate me.”

“Hate is passion,” he justifies, “Passion is vital to what we do. The way we live.”

She examines him with a kind of haughty, detached interest for a moment, before casting her blades away. “Put out your hands.”

He reluctantly indulges her, a quietly amused smile on his face. With that, she turns her back to him, raises her arms above her head, and kicks one leg high. Folding over backwards. Lacing her fingers in with his. He holds strong, and she pushes herself up into a handstand. Krayt settles into it easily, lifting her up until her eyes are level with his.

“How very trusting,” he remarks.

“Drop me, and you’ll regret it,” she replies, nothing so much as a hint of strain in her voice.

After a pensive beat, Krayt speaks again. A low, intimate whisper. “I want you to feel this,” he says, squeezing her hands in his, “This space between us. It holds among its molecules the vibrations of all our conversations.”

“Yes,” she ponders, guiding his hands towards each other, “All the exchanges, the… Petty irritations. Deadly admissions.” Carefully, she steps her hands over each other, exchanging their positions in his so her arms are crossed. And, slowly, she turns her back to him. Her spine curves once more, as she lifts her face up towards Krayt’s. Her legs descend either side of his head, feet hovering above his shoulders.

“The grunts and poetry of life,” Krayt muses aloud. “Listen. What do you hear?”

Annihila closes her eyes, and opens herself up to the call of Korriban. It comes as a chorus of whispers, caressing over her mind as though they were tangible things. The fingertips of her forbearers. “Music,” she says, “A Dark symphony.”

“We’re orchestrations of carbon,” he murmurs, so close now that she can feel the plume of his breath against her face. “You and I. Our destinies intertwined, flying and swimming together through blood and emptiness.”

She smirks. “Poetry indeed.”

After a beat, he suddenly asks, “Why haven’t we fucked, yet?”

“I’m married.”

“You fuck that boy. With the mech eyes.”

The Empress exhales a brisk laugh through her nose. “Then I suppose it’s the same reason we’ve never really crossed blades.”

“And what reason is that?”

“You’re a very old man.”

He smiles appreciatively, shaking his head in gentle dismay. “Not so old as you’d think.”

“I don’t love you,” she retorts, “How’s that for a reason?” At once, she regrets having said it. With eyes downcast, she unfolds from her contortion and lowers her feet back to the ground. “I don’t know why I said that,” she admits, turning away from him, “In truth, I do have love for you. You know that.”

“I do,” he nods. “Otherwise, you would never have given me the one thing you’ve denied Armitage, these many years.”

She turns her head, casting him a dubious glance over her shoulder.

“ _Our_ Empire has an heir. As of today, you and I have a son.”

The announcement feels like a hook behind her heart, sending a hold bolt of panic through her chest. She tries to conceal it, but knows full well that she can hide nothing from him.

“Yes,” she nods. “I suppose we do.” Reluctantly, she turns to face him once more. He steps close, not touching her with his hands, but leaning his forehead against hers.

“I had hoped to surprise you,” Krayt whispers, and Annihila need not ask what he’s referring to.

That damnable statue. Her face twitches with annoyance, but she does not pull away from him. “Rest assured _, ki trorin_ , you did.”

“And then you surprised me. And again,” he breathes, leaning into her, “And again.”

“You should’ve known I’d hate that,” she admonishes, closing her eyes. “Honestly.”

“I won’t apologize.”

“I know you won’t,” she reassures, pressing a kiss to his forehead, “And I’d never ask it of you.”

At the same time, on the other side of the sandstone fortress, H’voc of Nagi is collapsing heavily to his bedroll. He’s exhausted, with sweat clinging to his skin from the exertion of what he’s just done, but he’s thrilled. He wouldn’t change a thing.

“Fuck,” he pants, raking his hair back from his face, “ _Fuck_.”

He’s still reeling, still trying to come to terms with all that’s just happened. His lightsaber ( _his lightsaber_ ) leans in the corner, and he can’t take his eyes off of it. He wants to hold it, again. He wants to feel it in his hands. Cut something with it. He hasn’t cut anything with it, yet.

“Tsu,” he nudges, “ _Tsunaina_.”

“What?” his Twi’lek lover asks, breathless, crawling up to lay against his chest. Bare skin against bare skin, red on ashen-white. He traces his fingertips along her _lekku_ , but she swats his hand away. “Stop, you’re going to get me wound up, again, ‘Voc. I’m tired.”

“Did you see it?” he asks, smiling up at the ceiling.

“See what?”

“She… She _embraced_ me,” he marvels, “The _Sith’ari_.”

The Twi’lek laughs softly. “Yes, I saw.”

“They call her ‘Niha’,” he tells her, “The Knights. And Krayt.”

She trails her fingers along his chest. “Mmm.”

“But not the Emperor. He calls her ‘Ani’. He’s the only one who does.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.”

“Can you imagine that?” he asks, craning his neck to look her in the eye. “Calling the _One Sith of Prophecy_ ‘Niha’?”

“I’m sure you will, someday,” she reassures, beginning to tire of the subject. He’s here with _her_. He should be thinking of _her_.

“No,” he dismisses, pressing a kiss to her head, “No, I doubt that.”

“You will,” she says, settling into his embrace, “She likes you.”

His heart picks up a beat. “Do you think so?”

“Sure.”

“No, she doesn’t like anyone but Hux. She doesn’t even really like Krayt. They disagree on a lot of things. Did you hear that she destroyed the statue of XoXaan?”

Tsunaina rolls her eyes, grateful that her companion can’t see it. “Go to sleep, ‘Voc.”

“Fine,” he huffs, closing his eyes. “Fine.”

“Good.”

“Just…” he murmurs, shifting a little beneath her, “I just hope I can make her proud.”

“ _H’voc_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, ki ardira, it's big brain time. Who can name the Lethan Twi'lek woman and Nagai man who canonically hung out with Darth Krayt?


	9. Chapter 9

The sun hangs low over the Imperial district on Coruscant. The horizon is a burning strip of vibrant orange, fading up to pink, and then settling into deep blue overhead. But Armitage Hux cannot see it from his dais in in the center of the Senate hall. He sits, tight-lipped and tense, with a headache taking form behind his eyes. He feels caged in. Jumpy and exhausted.

“Your Imperial Highness, we need answers!” Ambassador Luckau demands, for what seems like the hundredth time. “Multiple systems have captured images confirming the excavation of the Sith city, and traffic through the quadrant has tripled! You cannot deny that there is an operation on Korriban!” At this point, it’s beginning to sound to the Emperor like whining.

“ _Meanwhile_ ,” the Chiss delegate chimes in, “The Exegol outpost has been all but deserted. If you mean to abandon us to hold the edge of the Galaxy on our own, then—”

A chorus of angry shouts in multiple tongues drowns out the end of the sentence. Hux rolls his eyes.

“ _Order_!” Grand Admiral Dryden commands from the center platform, close and loud enough to the Emperor that it startles him. “Exegol remains a manned, military outpost, Grand Admiral Noth'ama'asso, as you are well aware! This is yet another thinly-veiled attempt by the Ascendency to cut ties with the New Empire! But while you enjoy the comfort of Imperial trade, and the security of the Imperial armada, you will _cease these baseless complaints_!”

Hux looks up to the man and smirks in quiet admiration. He’s incredibly useful, on days such as these. Days when the Emperor has shouted himself hoarse, and tied his brain up in knots trying to out-think and out-logic the entire Galaxy.

“And as far as Korriban is concerned,” the Grand Admiral continues, “The operations taking place on that planet are under the direct supervision of the Empress—”

“ _Then we want to hear from her_!” someone demands, and the room choruses in furious agreement.

_“What is she doing out there?”_

_“We have a right to know!”_

_“Her actions affect us all!”_

Dryden falters a little, looking down at Hux. He murmurs, “We have to give them something, my Lord.”

With a frustrated snarl, Hux leaps to his feet. “ _Enough_!” he commands, voice booming through the chamber, “You dare question the will of your _Sith’ari_?”

Finally, exquisite silence.

In a voice like dark music, he roars, _“_ Everything that she does, every breath, every beat of her heart, is forthe _benefit of this Galaxy!_ By her blades and her mercy, you have enjoyed twelve years of peace and balance! Twelve years of prosperity and order! No longer are your sons and daughters snatched from your arms to be raised as killers! No longer do our Outer Rim territories suffer beneath the terrible yoke of _famine_!”

“At what cost?” Luckau challenges. The room gasps in collective disbelief.

But Hux simply scoffs, casting him a cruel smile. “ _Whatever_ the cost, you seem quite keen to add your corpse to the sum.”

He blanches, realizing his fatal misstep. “N-no, my Liege Lord—”

“No, perhaps you’re right. Why don’t we call Lord Annihila to the floor?” he muses sardonically, “I’m certain she’d love nothing more than to stop what she’s doing and hear your concerns, Ambassador. I’m content to wait. And it has been such a _disappointingly_ long time since I saw her rip a man’s tongue out with her teeth.”

Silence.

“ _No_?” Hux barks, and the entire Galaxy bows in fear. “I thought not!”

No one argues about Korriban, after that.

Across the city, Darth Annihila is having a very different evening. She’s reclined atop her husband’s throne in the Imperial palace, left leg slung over the arm of the chair as she scrolls through daily reports from all across the Galaxy. Requests from system leaders for more supplies, clone orders from warships, whispered secrets and rumor that are festering into truth. Applications to the Academy, in the form of proof of cruelty and might.

Bri’ahl, by his own choice, is sitting before the Throne, with one arm wrapped around her right leg and his chin resting on her knee. He has a pile of his frayed wires, and he’s twisting away at them contentedly. Each time he finishes a design- a flower, a starship, or a little figure- he sets it delicately on her lap.

“We can go to the residence, beloved,” the Empress nudges, peering down at him, “You shouldn’t sit on the floor.”

His grip around her leg tightens a little. “I’m fine.”

“I can find you some other amusement, if you’d—”

“No, I’m good,” he replies, gazing up at her in earnest, “Really. It’s nice to just… Sit quietly. With you. And this room is really beautiful. The windows… I like being in here.”

“Alright,” she concedes, “Whatever you wish, _ki aki_.”

No sooner have they settled back into silence than the doors to the Throne room swing open, revealing a pair of hooded figures. Bri jumps in shock, but she stills him with a click of her tongue, and a gentle hand through his hair.

“ _Ri Sith’ari_.”

“You’re _early_ ,” she pointedly remarks, still scrolling through her reports.

“Lord Krayt insisted,” H’voc is quick to justify, pushing his hood back, “I was viscerally afraid he’d eat my fingers, if I tried to argue.”

Annihila laughs genuinely. “You beautiful thing.” She notices, now, that he’s painted his face. A thick stripe across his eyes, and three lines down from his lower lip. Not red, like hers, but black. His own color.

“ _Dro rai krajotimas, mis aras ûrûadasi, ri Sith’ari,”_ H’voc formally greets, head bowed in respect.

The Empress returns the gesture. “ _Tsias jura ri traudzma, nu sûa âtiru zi.”_

At that, she can feel Bri’s arms tighten around her yet again, as something like a spike of jealousy jabs at the base of his skull.

_Be still, beloved_ , she soothes, quietly amused by it. _You know that you have my heart._

He shifts, indignant and uncomfortable. _Yeah, but I just don’t like these guys. They’re really scary._

“You should know that Armitage just landed,” Krayt informs her, nodding subtly down at Bri.

“Oh, did you hear that, Bri’ahl?” she remarks smartly, “Lord Krayt can use the _Force_. Most impressive.”

H’voc laughs appreciatively, but Krayt rolls his eyes.

“I should probably go, then,” Bri says, collecting up his wires and scrambling to his feet. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot of important work to do.”

“Yes, _fine_ ,” she wearily concedes, rising to kiss him off. “But I hope you understand that you leave with the weight of my broken heart upon your shoulders.”

“Hey, don’t be mean,” he pouts, tugging playfully at the front of her gown.

“What?” She smiles, leaning in to brush her nose against his. “I’ve never been mean a day in my life.”

He giggles. “Yeah, right.”

As he makes for the door, Krayt catches him by the arm.

_!! NIHA, HELP !!_

“Krayt,” she cautions.

He’s looking at Bri’s red-rimmed eyes. Leaning close, taking in their tiny details and imperfections. The click- _whirr_ as his pupils shrink in terror. “These are terrible,” he remarks, “She makes you walk around with that trash in your skull?”

“Sh-she doesn’t make me do anything,” Bri defends, voice quavering, “I like them.”

“I can get you better ones,” he offers, pointing to his Vong implant.

It comes out like a single word. “N-n- _nothankyou_.” _!! NIHA MAKE HIM STOP !!_

“Krayt, that’s enough!” she barks, and he releases him.

“Okay, bye, I’ll see you later, _love you_ ,” Bri blurts, sprinting from the room without so much as a backwards glance.

“Are you pleased with yourself?” Annihila snaps, knowing how much convincing it’ll take before Bri is willing to come back down here again. “You’re a beast.”

Krayt watches him leave with a kind of hungry smile. “I like that boy.”

That perturbs her. “Well, you’ve got a very cruel way of showing it.”

“Remarkable. He has seen horror. He’s seen its true face, he’s looked it in the eye, and yet he’s still standing,” he marvels, “Impressive, for someone Force-null.”

“I know that,” she pointedly acknowledges, stepping down from the throne.

“And he has such a complicated relationship with authority,” Krayt muses, “Especially women. Especially _you_. Like he doesn’t know the difference between fear and devotion.”

Annihila rolls her eyes as she walks past him. “Enough, Krayt. Let’s go.”

They enter the residence to find Hux already helping himself to a generous pour of scotch. “Ah, there they are!” he greets, “Ani, my darling, I’m completely miserable. Drink with me.”

She steps up behind him to press a kiss to his cheek. “Not tonight, my Starkiller.”

He rolls his eyes. “Krayt? Do they drink on Tatooine? What about on Nagi?”

H’voc smiles, opens his mouth to speak, but his Master interrupts. “ _No_.”

Hux frowns. “I thought the Sith were the fun ones?”

“Not this Sith.”

_Leave him be, my love_ , Annihila cautions.

The Emperor sucks his teeth, gives Krayt a dismissive wave. “ _Fine_. More for me. Stars, how I love socializing with the religious.”

Annihila nods. _Thank you._

“The Senate is furious with you,” Hux announces, taking a seat on the couch with his scotch. He kicks his feet up, settling in deep. “Both of— Well, I suppose all three of you.” He raises his glass almost patronizingly towards the Nagai.

“Oh, what have I done, now?” Annihila asks wearily, sinking down beside him. To her great amusement, H’voc takes a seat beside her. She catches only the briefest glimpse of Krayt’s admonishing expression as he settles in on the opposite couch.

“They want to know what you’re doing on Korriban.”

“And what did you tell them?” she asks, tapping fire to the end of his cigarette with her fingertip.

He smiles. “I told them not to question a woman who so enjoys the taste of Human flesh.”

_Your flesh_ , she teases.

He has to stifle the urge for a disbelieving scoff. _Annihila, really._

“Fine,” she sighs, “Fine. I’ll make an appearance, sometime this week. Offer them an explanation, just to shut them up.”

“Thank you, darling.”

Krayt snarls something indistinct.

“Come, now, Lord Krayt,” Hux goads, “Share with the class.”

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation for what we’re doing on Korriban,” he repeats, “Anyone who doesn’t like it can perish.”

“Do you think that what we do is easy?” Annihila asks pointedly, reclining to lay with her head in Hux’s lap. “This Empire was won by fear, that much is true. But fear is only a single link in the chain that keeps this Galaxy bound to us.” And then, after a moment of deliberation, she slings her legs across H’voc’s lap. He seems shocked, but settles into it after a beat.

Hux nods morosely, resting a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “It’s not enough to simply… Shove them all in a room together and bar the doors, you know. We have to keep them fed, and drunk enough that they never stop dancing, no matter what tune we play. And that requires a great deal of grace and subtlety.”

Krayt scoffs. “They should be made to serve _you_ , not the other way around.”

“That’s such a simplistic—” Annihila scoffs. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Pull support, if they’re going to question you. Let them eat each other alive, until only the worthy are left. The truly bloodthirsty. _That_ would be a Sith Empire.”

Hux politely lifts a finger. “I’m not a Sith.”

“No,” Krayt growls, “You are not.”

“Not today, Krayt,” she sighs, rubbing wearily at her temples, “I’m not doing this with you today.”

“You concern yourself with such things as peace and harmony—”

“No,” Annihila interrupts, “ _Order_. A method to control the chaos.”

He casts her a dangerous smile. “Do you feel _in control_?”

Anger and offense flare up in her chest. “Yes,” she snaps.

“So!” Hux cuts in, trying to stave off the inevitable confrontation, “What news do you bring of Korriban?”

After a tense beat of silence, Krayt nods to his apprentice. “ _Driuni_.”

H’voc clears his throat, still unsure of where to place his hands, with the Empress’ legs slung across his lap like this. “We’ve had two more earn their Kyber,” he begins, “Tsunaina the Lethan, and a Devaronian girl—”

“Both women,” Hux remarks.

H’voc nods appreciatively. “Yes. It would seem that our _Sith’ari_ attracts a certain breed of warrior.”

“Mmm!” Hux holds up a finger, taking another deep swallow of scotch, “But don’t tell me: not a single one of the Zabraks has met her exacting standard.”

H’voc barks a laugh. “You know your wife well, my Liege Lord. I think she’s hardest on her own kin. She expects as much of them as she expects of herself.” He looks down at his Empress, but she is lost in thought.

_What are you doing, Annihila?_ Krayt asks.

_I’m not playing this game with you today. I mean it._

_No, I’m quite serious,_ he presses, _you’ve surrendered so much of yourself to this Force-null Human man, and I will never, ever understand why._

_Passion and sacrifice,_ she reminds him, looking straight into those mismatched eyes. _Both vital tenets of our Code. I give to him because I love him._

_Sacrifice in the pursuit of_ strength _. Passion to_ break _chains._

She rolls her eyes. _Make your point, Kr— H’voc, stop listening!_ She shifts her legs so as to deliberately kick him in the knee.

The Nagai squirms in his seat, placing a tentative hand on her ankle to work her legs into a less dangerous position.

“Is there a problem, my beauty?” she challenges aloud, craning her neck to look at him.

“Your cybernetics _, ri Sith’ari_ ,” he mumbles, “Quite heavy… The Cortosis—”

“Well, then, it’s a good thing you’re so strong,” she says, laying her head back down in Hux’s lap.

_“Char, ri Sith’ari.”_

The Empress can’t help but smile. _I’m completely obsessed with this boy, Krayt. I may just snatch him back and keep him for myself._

The corner of his mouth twitches. _You’ll have to pry him from my cold, dead hands_.

_Don’t tempt me._

“And what was there to find on Wayland?” Hux presses, drawing H’voc’s attention back to the conversation. The Emperor may be Force-null, but he’s not stupid. Though he can’t hear it, he knows full well that Krayt and his wife are bickering with one another. He’d rather leave them to it, and hope it ends quickly. That’s seemed to work in the past.

H’voc clears his throat. “Out _Sith’ari’s_ calculations were, of course, correct. With a little coaxing, the labyrinth of Mount Tantiss yielded its secrets, and we were able to recover the complete contents of Darth Sidious’ vaults. Books and trinkets, primarily. A few amulets of considerable interest to our Order. Perhaps most notable, however, was the cloning chamber.”

Hux nearly chokes. “You’re joking.”

“Would that I was, my Liege Lord. He had twenty thousand Spaarti cylinders, crammed in there. A few half-formed golems of Snoke and himself still floating around, too, hideous things. We dispatched them quickly and cleanly. And, of course, a handful of Chiss left over, we presume, from Thrawn’s army.”

“ _Spaarti_ ,” Hux scoffs, “Of course. The Cartao never were as good at it as the Kamino, were they? No, they did nothing but breed madness into their clones, rushing the process the way they did. These things take time, you know, there’s no way to avoid it. But it’s likely all Sidious could get his hands on, after the practice was outlawed. It’s hardly a wonder he fell.”

H’voc casts his Empress a cautious glance, worried that she may interpret her husband’s remark as an insult. Spaarti clone or not, Darth Sidious would not have died easily. To imply that he did is a deep offense to the woman who finally succeeded where so many hundreds (Jedi and Sith alike) had failed. But the Empress seems to have missed the comment entirely. Still, she is locked in Force-bond with Krayt.

_Make your point_ , she commands of her apprentice.

Krayt sighs deeply, face hardening. _My point is that this is Grey._

She stiffens. _You know nothing about it. Nothing at all. This is yet more of your simplistic—_

_The woman who sits before me is not the woman who killed Darth Sidious. By sacrificing yourself for this man, you’ve let your passion become a chain of its own. And he drags you around by it like a leash._

_Balance,_ she insists _. Balance is not inherently Grey. Lest you forget, this was Lord Vader’s vision of the Galaxy: to hold power with his Force-null mate. It is_ that _vision that I have realized._

Krayt shakes his head. _You—_

_No!_ She drowns him out, finding a foothold. _You would not_ dare _to say such things to me if I were a man, doing as much for his Force-null woman!_

Krayt snarls softly. _I would,_ he insists _, because it was Vader’s downfall, and so too will it be yours._

_You’re oversimplifying again! Sidious’_ _manipulation was his downfall, and it could’ve been mine, too, had I not—_

_It doesn’t matter!!_ Now it is his turn to drown her out. _Lest_ you _forget, you are no man. You are a Dathomirian woman. What would Ventress say, could she see you now? Shelish? Talzin? Compromising yourself for such an unworthy mate._

Unworthy. As though the soul of Armitage Hux does not, itself, hang heavy with trillions of deaths. As if his hands are not stained with as much blood. Krayt’s words sting, but Annihila holds strong. _I don’t care what they would say,_ she sneers at him _, they perished before ever achieving so much as a_ fraction _of what I have._

_The Rancor does not submit to captivity._

She rolls her eyes. Taif’sa _, that’s the worst metaphor I’ve ever heard. There’s a captive Rancor on your own home planet. You must be getting senile._

Krayt rankles. _Perhaps you’re simply too young and arrogant to accept council. Too young and arrogant to see that your Empire is doomed to fail._

“Then so be it!” she roars aloud, sitting up in a fury, “There can be no creation without destruction! I serve the _Balance_!”

“Ah.” Hux raises his glass in a solitary toast. “They’re back.”

Krayt shakes his head in disbelief, pressing his fingers into his eyes. “You… You’re so frustratingly close to the point.”

“Get out of my sight, Krayt,” she dismisses with a wave of her hand, “Just go. I can’t look at you for one more second.”

He stands, and H’voc moves to follow suit, but she slings her left leg back across his lap.

“You stay,” she commands, “I’ll have them make up a room for you. Lord Krayt can go sleep in his ship, for all I care.”

Krayt snaps his fingers at his apprentice, striding furiously for the door. “ _Ros, H’voc_.”

He gingerly removes her leg from his lap so he can stand. “I’m sorry, _ri Sith’ari_.”

“Oh, it’s not you,” she reassures, rising with him, “You’re absolutely _perfect_ , as usual.”

H’voc eyes the Emperor warily over her shoulder, as he makes his way across the room to refill his glass of scotch. After that, he disappears into the bedchamber, tugging at his cape.

“Look at me,” she commands softly, running a finger along his painted chin, “Do you know how much I adore this?”

His chest swells with vindication. “Thank you, _ri Sith’ari_. I think of it… Well, I think of it as my _Jato_.”

In that moment, Annihila’s heart feels as though it could burst. It’s a strange kind of pride: one she’s never felt in her life. One she never thought she would feel. _Do I have a family? Do I have a Clan of my own?_

“Please give Lord Krayt a room,” H’voc suddenly asks.

She blinks up at him in surprise, and it takes her a moment to realize what he’s talking about. “He has one,” she says, “He’s always had a room, here, that was just… I’m quite displeased with him, at the moment.”

H’voc nods. “Thank you, my Lord.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, you worry too much. _Rest_ ,” she commands, pressing kisses to his cheeks, “You can try my suspension apparatus, tomorrow. There’s nothing like it in the Galaxy, no single experience more pure.”

He smiles broadly. “I’d be honored, _ri Sith’ari_.”

“ _Ani_ ,” Hux calls out, and they can hear him fall heavily to the mattress, “I’m exhausted. Get in here and fuck me until I _die_.”

H’voc’s face twitches with something like hurt. It’s quick, and nearly imperceptible. But he can hide nothing from his Empress. She cocks an eyebrow and he bows his head, chagrined. And, with that, he turns and follows Krayt from the room.

* * *

The following morning, H’voc strides purposefully into the Imperial Residence. “ _Ri Sith’ari_?”

When she steps around the corner, he catches only a fleeting glimpse of her before he drops to one knee, head bowed. He has seen her in the role of the One Sith, stirring the Eternal into hateful frenzy with musical speech, wielding her Shadow Magic and bending the Darkness to her will. He has seen her as the blood-splattered warrior, separated from her men by rank alone, wielding her twin-blades and asking nothing of them that she would not do herself.

But this is something different entirely. She towers over him now, draped in a long skirt with a black cape pinned to her shoulders. One of her finely-carved ironweave breastplates clings to her torso, and over it, she wears a forbidding harness of leather straps and golden rings.

_The bound goddess_ , he thinks, shaking the thought from his head. Quickly enough, he hopes, that it goes unnoticed.

“ _Ki sû'us_ ,” (my son) she greets, pulling him to his feet with a hand on his chin. “Rise and meet your _Sith’ari_.”

She’s wearing those gloves. The black ones that encase little finger and thumb alone. When he looks up, he sees it: the gilded blind-mask, fitted to the top half of her face. And encircling the crown of her head, jutting out from her forehead—

“Are those the _orat_ of Darth Maul?”

She nods. “They are. Your Master’s first gift to me.”

“Beautiful,” he remarks, distantly. “May I ask, _ri Sith’ari_ , as to the purpose of the blind?”

The corner of her mouth lifts into an amused smile. “Has Lord Krayt not exercised you without sight?”

“He has. But I thought it just that: an exercise.”

“There are applications to the technique that extend far beyond training.” She brushes past him, out into the corridor, and he dutifully follows. Together, they glide through the Imperial Palace, her black-robed _Rizûti_ bending and scraping as they pass. “Cut yourself off from everything but the Force, and you’ll find you’re able to see much more than you ever could with your eyes. Today, I mean to remind the Senate that, though they may be able to fool my husband with their double-speak and plotting, he is _not_ the sole Sovereign of this Galaxy.”

H’voc smiles. He likes that. And, the further they walk, the more impressed he is by the Empress’ ability to navigate entirely blind. What must it look like, for her? What must she sense, now? Shimmering outlines in the blackness, perhaps, or something more? Something he couldn’t possibly begin to comprehend. A furtive glance confirms his suspicions: she’s carrying her blades. His smile broadens.

“You bring your lightsabers to the Senate floor, my Lord?”

“I bring them everywhere,” she says, “ _Everywhere_. It should never take longer than two heartbeats to access your weapon. And so, when your heart is racing, you should hope that your blade is very close indeed.” She casts him a sidelong smile, then, and warmth blooms in his chest. She pauses, holds up a finger. “Keep your blade close,” she amends, “But ensure that you don’t need it in order to take a life.”

“ _Char, Sith’ari_ ,” he says genuinely, “Thank you.”

They step out onto the landing pad to find Lord Krayt, waiting impatiently.

“I told you to _get her_ ,” he snaps, “Not share in a leisurely cup of tea and then wander over at your own convenience.”

_Calm down, Krayt_ , she gently scolds. _He’s doing his best._

There’s a thought that’s been gnawing away at H’voc for a while, now, and as they settle into the transport he finally voices it. “You’ve neglected your war paint, my Lord.” He’d gone out of his way to paint his own face, today, hoping to match his Empress. That it’s missing tears a little at his heart.

But Annihila simply smiles, and as the transport begins to move, she says, “Don’t worry, my beauty. I’ll have it, soon.”

H’voc furrows his brow, and opens his mouth to question her further, but his Master catches him.

_Leave her alone, now, boy. She’s focusing._

He nods. _Char, ri Arsosûtoirsa._

Instead, H’voc concedes to study his Empress in silence. She sits with her back straight, long-nailed hands laced so demurely in her lap. The picture of regal composure. But behind that gilded mask, behind her measured, clinical calm, he can feel the hate and fury beginning to build. She’s drawing it up from her roots, letting it fill her. But in her, it remains perfectly contained.

Krayt does this, too, sometimes. Such a thing could only come, H’voc thinks, from decades of discipline and control. It’s a difficult concept for him to grasp, at this point in his training. His fury still burns bright and unchecked, catching the moment it sparks. The hatred can be so consuming at times, maddeningly so. Not like hers. The Empress’ fury burns cold. He wonders, fleetingly, if this restraint is a symptom of their time as Jedi.

He pushes the thought from his head before either can sense it. He hopes.

In the silence and solitude of her own mind, Darth Annihila is indeed focusing. She’s focusing on each of the ten points encircling the crown of her head in turn, and then as a whole. Filling them with fire, drawing it down through her center.

_Do you feel your heart burning,_ Vyshtal’nek’i edalinare _?_

The Shadow ripples across space and time. The soul of Maul has heard her call.

_They could never kill us in a way that matters,_ she tells him. _Today_ , _we shall stand together in the center of the Galaxy, and you shall have the voice that you were so long denied._

The brush of a hand down her cheek. The hollow echo of, “ _M’leata_ ,” (My sister) reverberating through her ears.

_They owe you awe. Guide me now, and I will see your glory restored._

When the transport lights once more on the landing pad, Annihila stands and moves gracefully to the doorway. Flanked by her most loyal knights, she waits.

“H’voc,” she prompts, and he looks down to see her arms lifted, palms upturned and waiting. Krayt has already placed a hand in hers, and H’voc follows suit. Her fingertips are warm against his skin, and he wonders briefly if he’ll see her use her Shadow Magic today. And then the door to the shuttle opens, and the trio is met by a wall of sound.

The entire plaza surrounding the rotunda is teeming with onlookers, held at bay by trim lines of red-robed Sovereign Protectors. Some are cheering and applauding, craning for a look at their beautiful and elusive Empress, but most are howling in anger. Like wild animals, they claw their way through the crowd, only to be beaten back by the guards.

For a few seconds, H’voc opens himself to it entirely. He lets all of their emotion, all of their rage and fury, fill his chest as though it were his own. At once, the urge to vomit rises in the back of his throat. He hates these people. _Hates_ them. He wants to draw his blade and charge into the crowd, he wants to howl, he wants to rend meat from bone.

Krayt makes a sound like a growl, cut short. _Behave, boy._

_She’d let me_ , he argues, _if I asked her. She hates them, too._

_She does,_ his master concedes, _but they are no threat. Insects have no quarrel with a boot._

Annihila acknowledges none of it. She holds her head high, gently clasping the hands of her knights, and proceeds along the walkway to the rotunda. The entrance is marked by an ornately carved door, adorned with the Great Seal of the New Empire and the sigils of the Thousand Worlds. On a normal day, the doors would be open to all who might enter. (Hux’s idea, surely. Placate the people with the superficial illusion of democracy.) But not today. Today, those doors open only for those invited.

Hux and Annihila are appearing publicly in the same venue. Such an occasion would make for an inviting target, if one were so inclined.

Just inside lies a massive, circular atrium. During the reign of the Republic this room was lined with statues of Jedi heroes and lauded politicians. Darth Annihila has since ground those statues to dust. Now, the hall is overseen by the stone eyes of the Sith Lords of old: Karneess Muur, King Adas, XoXaan, and Ajunta Pall. Darth Revan, Darth Bane. Vader and Amidala. Even Mother Talzin. New heroes for a New Empire.

It is here, among such honored company, that H’voc realizes how out of place he and Krayt must look in their tattered Sith robes. He’d have found something else to wear. He’d have made himself beautiful for her, had she only asked it of him.

_No_ , she swiftly negates. _You’re precisely the way I want you._

When they enter the Grand Convocation Chamber, the entire room falls silent. A deep cold seems to settle at once upon the hall, a collective shiver tracing up each and every spine. There are eyes on them, now. The entire Galaxy has turned to watch.

The space is massive and quite dark, curved walls lined with repulsorpods in concentric circles from floor to ceiling. Among them, H’voc picks out a few familiar systems. Mandalore, Naboo, Corellia, Kashyyyk. He can’t find Nagi, yet. He’ll keep looking.

The center of the vast chamber is dominated by a podium, upon which Hux and his sycophantic Grand Admiral are waiting. At the sight of his wife, the Emperor smiles. He’s wearing his impractical white and gold cape today, and that obscene crown. Not the laurels, but the real crown. Heavy, and so needlessly ornate.

It’s such an annoyance. H’voc wants to grind his molars together until the burning in his throat starts to chip away, the flakes of enamel and bone sparking and sputtering like a haywire nerve.

The word occurs to him before he can stop it: _unearned_.

_Careful, boy_ , Krayt cautions. _Be mindful of your thoughts. You’d do well to stay in her good graces, on this day._

Dryden is the first to break the tense silence. “Bow before your Empress!” he commands, and all obey.

Still clasping the hands of her Knights, Darth Annihila steps onto a nearby repulsor lift, and the trio is rocketed upwards.

_Why did you bring them?_ Hux asks pointedly as they join him on the podium. _What the—? Are those— Ani, are you wearing Maul’s_ orat? _Did you make them into a kriffing_ crown _?_

Inwardly, H’voc can’t help but be a little impressed with the Force-null Human man. To look at his face, you would never know the panic he’s feeling. He’s clutching blindly at some semblance of control, and watching in despair and helplessness as Annihila rips it away from him. But he’s smiling, demure little princess that he is. Two-faced Human bastard. Such a convincing performance could only come, he thinks, from decades of practice.

Annihila releases Krayt and reaches out for her husband, blind but sure, and he takes her hand to press his lips to her knuckles.

She released _Krayt_. Not him.

The Emperor is still frantic. _This isn’t funny. This is absolutely_ not _what I had in mind, when I—_

_Make them continue_ , she commands, and H’voc leads her to her place beside her husband.

The Emperor’s face twitches with annoyance, imperceptible to most.

_Armitage._

“Grand Admiral Noth’ama’asso,” Hux finally voices. “You were saying?”

The man visibly flinches.

“Grand Admiral!” he snaps, “ _Continue_!”

“N-no!” Thama finally manages, “No, I won’t continue, not with that Iridonian witch in the room!”

Hundreds of voices rise into cacophony, a blend of agreement and dissent, but none louder than those of the Iridonians.

“Your Empress is _Dathomiri_!” the Senator shrieks, “And Iridonia stands by her sister!”

“ _Let her speak_!”

“Mandalore stands by the _Sith’ari_!”

“As do the worlds of the Stygian Caldera!”

“She’ll read our thoughts!” someone cries, “She’ll bend our wills to her own design!”

“It’s not fair!”

It’s madness. Screaming and arguing in a thousand tongues, the stench of fear hanging thick among them.

Through it all, Darth Annihila remains still and silent. _He’s lying to us_ , she tells her husband. _Thama. He thinks himself very clever for it._

Hux gives her a subtle nod. _Yes, I thought he might be._

_He means to manipulate and usurp us. And that one—_

Hux’s eyes dart over to the Cantonican delegation. Luckau, another Human man.

_He’s just as bad, if not worse._

He nods, an imperious lift of his chin. _It would seem we’ve a little conspiracy on our hands._

_Make them continue._

“ _Order_!” the Emperor barks, “We will have order!”

After a few seconds, the delegates quiet. A little hovercam comes to an apogee very near the central podium, and a glance towards the main viewscreen provides H’voc the startling image of his own face, nearly a meter wide. A sudden ripple in the Force draws his attention away, however, and he finally lays eyes on the Nagai delegation.

T’shkali, Kor Essen, and Ozrei. His brothers, beaming with pride to see him. _Him_ , standing on the central podium of the Grand Convocation Chamber, lightsaber slung across his back, hand-in-hand with the _Sith’ari_.

No longer a warlord, no longer a problem to be quickly and quietly dealt with, but the pride of Nagi.

It’s all he can think about, even as the debate tentatively resumes. Something about Exegol and Korriban. The Chiss Ascendancy, Cantonican trade routes. _Politics_. The word is like a shard of metal upon which H’voc been forced to bite down. He, like his Empress, was made for things far more brutal and self-evident than this.

In the blackness behind her gilded blind, Darth Annihila is listening. Searching. Rifling through the mind of each speaker in turn, quick and silent as a shadow. She gives an inquisitive nod every once in a while, the occasional hint of a smile or grimace whispering across her lips.

Hux’s Grand Admiral clears his throat softly, and H’voc casts him a sidelong glance. He’s met by an encouraging, albeit patronizing nod. Again, the Nagai feels the urge to vomit. Preferably all over Dryden.

“Who are the men accompanying the Empress?” Grand Admiral Thama suddenly demands, and H’voc’s attention returns at once to the proceedings. “And why are they so armed?”

_Representatives from the Sith Order_ , Annihila feeds her husband. _Speak not of their names._

“They are representatives of the Sith Order,” Hux dutifully repeats, “An Order to which this Galaxy owes its prosperity.”

“Do you mean to function as her mouthpiece?” the Cantonican snaps, “Dark mysticism and violence have no place in this Chamber! The Empress shall speak for herself, or I move that she be escorted from this hall!”

After a beat, Annihila visibly flinches. H’voc wishes he could hear what she’d heard, whatever momentary whisper of a thought offended her so. And then her fingertips begin to burn against his palm.

_Which one do we need less?_ She demands of her husband. In her tone, H’voc can hear the kind of sing-song lilt that typically presages the violent application of her lightsabers.

Though he remains stoic, the Emperor’s face loses a little of its color. _I don’t know how the hell you expect me to answer that, I—_

_Make an assessment, Armitage, or I’ll make one myself._

Hux swallows dryly.

_!! ARMITAGE !!_

_The Chiss,_ he finally answers. _Thama. Take Thama._

The Empress finally releases her apprentice, and his heart skips a beat. Calm and composed, she steps to the edge of the podium, alone. And no more than a moment later, Grand Admiral Noth’ama’asso is wrenched from his pod by the throat, directly into the waiting hand of Darth Annihila.

His hands clutch at his throat, fingernails clawing at her wrist. All noise evacuates the room, leaving only the sound of the man’s grunts and gasps as he fights for air.

H’voc quickens. His hand burns for the hilt of his blade, the hatred and thrill blending into a single emotion.

_This is_ her _kill_ , Krayt cautions, _not yours. Do as your told, now._

He can’t help it. It’s humming in his blood, shifting beneath his skin and tugging haphazardly at his nerves. A frenetic glance upward confirms his assumption: this scene is being broadcast on the main viewscreen in clear, startling detail.

By this point, Thama is kicking and wheezing, the blue tone to his face taking on a sickening purple hue. The blood vessels have burst in his sclera, tingeing them with turquoise, tears stream down his cheeks. No one moves to stop her, no one moves to help. What could they do, really? In this moment, the entirety of the Galaxy can but watch, and gape in horror at the tableau: Hux, Thama, Annihila. Seeing her, _really_ seeing her, for the first time, in all of her malevolent glory. How tall and imposing she is, the terrible glittering of her teeth, her long-nailed hand outstretched, that much more brutal for her perfect stillness.

And Hux by her side.

The Emperor is thinking, distantly, of how it felt to ask Phasma to kill Brendol, of his slow decay in the Bacta tank. Lingering, exquisite. He recalls the people he’s seen to personally over the years, the ones he’d done up close. Close enough that he could watch the light go out of their eyes, close enough for them to blow their last breath in his face. No, he has no qualms about murder, of course, he never has. Armitage Hux is a man of violence. And Thama has troubled him enough to earn this. The Grand Admiral will die here, that he knows. If he knows his wife, the Chiss has but seconds left. The question instead becomes what this killing will accomplish.

And then Annihila astonishes him once more.

In Hux’s opinion, it is a step too far.

In Krayt and H’voc’s, it is not.

She drags him close, wrenches his jaw open with her free hand. And then she roars- the kind of sound that begins at the back of one throat and ends deep in another. Her intention occurs to her companions in a series of disjointed flashes.

A cry of, “ _No_!” catches in the Emperor’s throat, coming out as little more than a strangled whimper. Inaudible, beneath the sounds of the struggle.

_Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh fuck, Ani—_

Her mouth presses against Thama’s, whose eyes fly wide with panic. Visceral confusion, incomprehension. His scream muffles into her throat. Blood spurts out from between the lips of predator and prey. And then comes the sickening sound of flesh rending, popping, stretching as Annihila withdraws. A sharp jerk of her head. The Grand Admiral’s scream rises to a fever pitch, and then suddenly stops.

Briefly, H’voc wonders if she’s killed him. But no, he’s alive, coughing and twitching, the sharp reek of piss coming strong off of him. For a moment, the Chiss simply blinks at his Empress, mouth opening and closing in stunned silence. He takes in the blank, unreadable expanse of her mask, behind which he can only imagine those predatory eyes. Those cruel, silver, gleaming eyes. And then he registers that it’s his own severed tongue that he’s seeing, clenched between her teeth. Just a chunk of flesh, now. Unfeeling, detached. _Yes_ , he thinks vaguely. _That must be why my mouth feels so strange._ She sucks it in past her lips with relish.

And then she swallows.

Krayt exhales a quick, two-syllable chuckle, grinning broadly. H’voc has to stifle the satisfied groan building in his throat.

Hux brings a hand to his mouth. _Ani, I’m going to be sick._

She hoists her victim higher still, holding him up for all to see. The image fills the viewscreen, a shocking clash of red and blue. _If you vomit, Armitage, I swear by the Left-Handed God, you’ll be next._

_Ani—_

_!! Don’t you dare !!_

_Get rid of him already,_ he begs, _Stars, he’s not even dead yet!_

Annihila snarls once more, head snapping to the side. She bares her bloodstained teeth at her husband, a low, deadly hiss rising from her throat.

For a moment, H’voc, and Krayt, too, believe that she means to turn her fury against her beloved.

But Hux is unfazed. He steps up beside her, and murmurs in her ear, “That’s enough.”

Without another word, she flings the unconscious man from the podium and he falls, down, down. It’s a small eternity before he lands with a sickening thud, almost a kilometer below.

Hux nods. “Thank you.”

_Ki sû’us,_ comes her voice, a sharp and acerbic rebound through H’voc’s skull.

He starts in surprise. _Char, Sith’ari?_

She turns as if to look over her shoulder towards him, past her husband. _I told you I’d be wearing my war paint._

It dawns on him slowly, at first, and then the realization rolls over him in a galvanizing wave: red lines down her chin.

It makes him falter, suck in a ragged breath. His head is swimming, and he doesn’t know if he should scream or laugh or if he’s about to _implode_ trying to comprehend what he’s feeling, or what he just witnessed. But, all at once, he realizes that he wants to kiss her. He wants to lick that man’s blood from her tongue and swallow it. It’s the only thing he’s ever really wanted, all his life.

With that, Annihila’s lips curl into a satisfied smile. _Krayt_ , she commands, turning back to the crowd. _Tell them._

Wiping the smile from his face with unsettling ease, Krayt steps up beside his Sith’ari. And, as only a Tusken can, he barks, “Each system shall have precisely one Galactic Standard Week to produce a suitable, Force-sensitive candidate for the Sith Academy on Korriban. No children. They are to arrive alone, and you needn’t expect their return.”

No one asks what will happen if they don’t. No one _really_ wants to know the answer to that question.

H’voc smiles, because he _knows_ what will happen to them if they don’t. He also knows why they needn’t expect their return, because he will be the one “testing” the candidates.

Darth Annihila turns to face the Chiss pod, then, and the air seems to bend and warp around her. She takes a quick measure of the two remaining delegates. Kirm'awoth'ato, and Mitth'ruot'esuo. Both men. Both high-ranking, deservedly so. And, for the first time since she boarded the transport ship with her knights, the _Sith’ari_ speaks aloud.

“Is that going to be a problem,” she asks, her voice like silk and smoke, “ _Grand Admiral_ Mitth'ruot'esuo?”

Thruot’e swallows dryly, mouth opening and closing around words that do not come. His entire life has been spent in the company of powerful, ruthless, Force-adept women, and he certainly had no respect for Thama. No respect for his disgusting tactics, or his frustrating belief that he could somehow outsmart the Sovereigns Supreme. But that… _That_ …

At once, he feels a kind of hot pinprick at the back of his skull, a hand wrapping lightly around his brainstem. Threatening to squeeze.

“No, my Liege Lady,” he finally blurts, “Rest assured that, from now on, you shall have the full, _unwavering_ support of the Chiss Ascendency.”

With that, Annihila opens her palms to her Knights once more, and allows them to lead her back to the repulsor lift. Just before they descend, she looks to her husband and grins, her mouth like a gaping, bleeding wound.

On the way back out across the courtyard, someone tries to throw a rock at her. Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, H’voc stops it mid-air, and buries it into the skull of her would-be assailant.

Once they’ve returned to the transport, and the doors have sealed behind them, Darth Annihila removes her crown. Blinking as she adjusts to the light, her eyes finally come to rest on H’voc’s. Again, the breath hitches in his chest. They’re close enough that she can see his pupils dilate, black expanding into that cold, depthless grey.

In a tone that is stern and level, she announces, “A problem that cannot be solved by making a man watch you eat his tongue is a problem that cannot be solved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, she literally just did the exact thing he told everyone she was gonna do. Like I don't know why he's freaking out, god.


	10. Chapter 10

H’voc leans against the stone balustrade lining the Contemplation Balcony, fingers laced tightly together, shaking in his rage and frustration.

He hates this. It’s like he can feel his own veins collapsing, his own _cells_ dying; his body consuming itself in a futile attempt to keep this fury contained. He hates the red haze crowding his vision, the thick pressure of pain gripping his temples, all of his acuity and perception closing in around him like a fog, like a vise. He wants to pace, wants to grind his teeth, wants to scream, just to feel some sort of agency, some sort of power again.

He blinks back something burning and wet, and all at once, he feels a startling jab of pain.

“Fuck.”

The curse is out of his mouth before he can think. _Fuck_. His hand is stinging; there’s blood welling in his palm, and it’s a long moment before he connects it to the four neat crescents carved into his skin and the crimson under his fingernails. He stares at the dark red pooling in the creases of his hand and considers clenching his fist and digging his fingers deeper into the cuts. It would give him some proof of the satisfying certainty of cause and effect, that if he brought it to his tongue it would taste of his own blood.

“Fuck.”

“ _What_?” Krayt snaps, “What are you over there muttering about? What’s wrong with you?”

“I could _kill_ that man,” he seethes, closing his fist again, letting the blood drip down onto the stone, “I’ll rip his stinking, cowardly guts out and strangle him to death with them. He has no right to— _No right_. The _Human_.” He catches himself quickly, as he recalls to whom he is speaking. “I’m sorry, Master.”

After a beat, Krayt nods. “Alright. Kill him.”

It hurts. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

He casts him a critical, dubious look. “What?”

“You can kill him,” Krayt announces, gaze set on the glittering skyline, “But not yet.”

The spark of vindication H’voc feels is short lived, yielding quickly to caution. “On what provision?”

“You kill her, too.”

H’voc scoffs. “You’ve gone mad, Krayt—”

“Every Sith must make a sacrifice. Vader gave his true love, I forsook the Jedi. Annihila her limbs. And this is the sacrifice that I demand of you.”

“You—”

“I, Darth Krayt,” he interrupts, “Your rightful _Sith’ari_.”

* * *

_“Get up, Nul.”_

The Empress starts in surprise, sitting bolt upright in her bed. 

Coruscant, she realizes as she looks around the room. Still on Coruscant. She reaches out to run a hand along her husband’s bare back, and only then does she realize how badly she’s shaking. There’s sweat clinging to her skin, and her heart is pounding. _What was I dreaming about?_ She wracks her brain, trying to pin it down, but it’s like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.

Pain. That’s all she can recall. Pain, and something shrouded drawing nearer and nearer. In her dream, the Dark had not been a comfort, but rather something to be feared. Something sinister, plotting against her.

“ _Nul_.”

The Empress looks up in a panic, and sees it: the shimmering, translucent blue form of Ben Solo. The source of all her torment, standing at the foot of her bed.

And he is so arrestingly, so _breathtakingly_ beautiful. Long-haired, draped in Jedi robes. He looks like himself on a good day: strong and certain and at peace.

_No_. “This is a dream,” she snarls, throwing the sheets back and snatching for her dressing gown.

“It’s not.”

She flings the robe over her shoulders and strides straight through him, ignoring the strange, icy sensation that accompanies the act. She storms into the sitting room, heading straight for Hux’s liquor, only to find that Ben is blocking her path.

“Move,” she commands, eyes downcast.

“Why have you been ignoring me?” he asks, stepping aside. It’s that naïve, childish tone of voice she remembers all too well.

“I killed you for a reason,” she snaps, shaking hands struggling with the decanter of scotch, “So that I didn’t have to deal with this precise sort of incessant, needy clinging.”

“That’s not true,” he says, and there’s a kind of playful knowing in his voice.

“Oh, what the hell do you know?”

“More than you think. What are you doing?” he asks, seeming to be quite amused.

“Drinking until you leave.” She pours a massive quantity of alcohol into a glass and knocks it back in one, single gulp. No sooner has the warmth hit her stomach than she’s pouring another.

“I’m staying until you listen.”

“Shouldn’t you hate me?” she challenges, still refusing to look at him. “I killed you.”

“I was beyond redemption,” he says, “The path I was headed down had only one end, it was too late for me. You took my life, yes. But in doing so, saved me from the very fate you seem so intent on meeting yourself.”

“Oh, now he’s a Jedi again,” she scoffs, picking up the entire decanter and stomping over to the sofa, “What an absolute delight.”

“You talk like him, now,” Ben points out, “Hux.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure I do.”

“He talks like you too, sometimes. You’ve been very successful, together. I knew you would be. You’re both formidable people. Born conquerors.”

“Oh, _thank_ you, Ben.”

At once, he’s very close. Leaning over her shoulder, whispering in her ear. “It was too late for me. It’s not too late for you.”

She turns to look at him, meaning to fight or to argue, but at once the desire flickers and fades and she is laid out once more by his beauty. He’s radiant. His presence is such… Such a disarming and familiar comfort. The realization hits her before she’s ready, before she knows what to make of it: she loves him. For an inexplicable moment, it is the one, single thing that she knows to be entirely true. What utility is there in loving the dead, what end? It’s an entirely futile thing. But this is the one force in the universe as untamable as she. Destructive, confusing, enslaving.

And he smiles, oh, he _smiles_ at her; lips and eyes lifting all at once into an expression that is wide, warm, and welcoming. It feels like going home. He cocks his head to look at her, really look, and his eyes flit here and there across her face. He’s taking in all the little ways in which she’s changed. New lines, new scars. Ten years’ worth, she realizes. He’s been dead for ten years. His gaze comes to rest on her lips, and for a flicker of time, in the space between seconds, she wants only to kiss him again. She could die, if only she could kiss him right now.

Panic hits her then, like a bucket of ice water thrown into her face. Annihila can’t believe what’s happening. She hates it. She tries to squirm away, but he seems to follow along seamlessly, never straying.

“Nul.” He sounds so disappointed.

She brings her hands to her forehead, takes a deep breath, and asks the question she swore to herself that she would never ask. “What? What does that mean, it’s not too late?”

“I know you,” he says, “I’ve seen your heart as few others ever have.”

She presses her eyes shut. “Yes.” It’s excruciating.

“There is good in you, still, I can see it. It’s in the way you treat that boy, your _dhasias drida_. The way you treat Hux. This isn’t what you want, not really. If you had your way, you’d rule in peace with your beloved.”

“No.” _Yes_.

“Yes. We wanted it, you and I. And now, you want it with him. That’s okay. But Hett is poisoning you. His need for revenge, his thirst for power; always growing, never receding. You know it as well as I do.”

Oh, he nearly had her. She was so, so close to giving in. But all at once, it becomes clear. Terrifyingly, maddeningly, infuriatingly clear. Darth Annihila’s fingertips burn with fire, and her expression turns to a furious sneer. “You… You would have me kill him. Krayt.”

Ben nods. “Yes.”

“Destroy my own Order.” Her voice begins to rise in volume. “Destroy everything I’ve built, is that it?”

“Before it’s too late.”

She roars, “ _I AM NO JEDI_!” At once, she is on her feet, still clutching the decanter of scotch. Ben doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch. He’s wearing that maddening expression that she saw so often on Skywalker’s face. Serene and condescending. She lunges for him, snarling and furious, “I am _through_ being a tool for the Light! I wasted thirty years of my life as a mindless pawn, doing as others commanded, following orders, bowing and scraping, and all the while _trusting_ that it was all in the name of some greater agenda! I was blind, then, but I am blind no longer! _I am the_ Sith’ari _, and I take orders from no one!_ Not Krayt, not Armitage, not the Senate, _and certainly not DEAD FUCKING MEN_!” With all the strength in her, she hurls the decanter straight through him. It shatters loudly against the wall, shards of glass flying out in every direction. “ _IF YOU COME HERE AGAIN_ —”

“ _Annihila_!”

At once, the trance is broken. She gasps, swaying a little as she blinks away the haze of her fury. Her husband standing before her, now, wrapped in his dressing gown. His eyes are wide with fear and glistening, hands raised in a kind of pitiful surrender. When she looks around, all she can see is shattered glass on the floor, and a wide splash of liquor dripping down the wall.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s a cool and pleasant night, on Coruscant. The Temple District bustles with activity, the sky threaded by the multicolored lights of speeder traffic. The Empress sits in the Imperial Residence, poring through the end-of-day reports on her datapad. Bri’ahl is perched behind her, up on the back of the couch, legs slung down over her shoulders. Fiddling with her hair, humming contentedly.

She smiles when the door opens behind them. “Heart of my heart.”

“My darling.” She hears his footsteps recede into the bedroom, hears the rustle of his cape as he strips away his uniform.

“I’ll go,” Bri whispers.

She takes him by the ankle and presses her lips to the top of his bare foot. “Alright, beloved.”

He takes her face in his hands, tilting her head back and kissing her. He wrinkles his nose. “Ew, gross, _foot_ ,” he teases, hopping down from the back of the couch. “Love you, Nih.”

“And I you, _ki aki_.”

After a moment, he’s gone.

“How was it?” Annihila calls after her husband.

“Terribly dull,” he replies emphatically, “I’m exhausted. But I hardly think I’ll be able to sleep.”

“Mmm,” she nods, still scrolling through her reports.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, stepping around behind the sofa to clink around with bottles and glasses. He knows her well enough, by now, to hear the flicker of worry behind her distracted tone. It lingers on the edges of her voice, and in the way she hasn’t looked up from the datapad, yet. He knows her in his marrow. “Ani.”

“Krayt is… _Off_ ,” she finally answers, “Agitated by something. It’s put me off, too.”

“Oh?” he remarks, pouring himself a drink, “Is he here?”

“No, he’s out on Korriban. But we spoke, today.” She sighs deeply, rubbing at her temples. “He’s hiding something, I can sense it. I only hope it’s something as simple as that… _Horrifically_ disrespectful statue. I don’t know. He always was the only one who could keep anything from me. I suppose that’s why I’ve found it best to keep him close.”

“Just ask that Nagai of yours,” Hux replies, a hint of a smile to be heard in his voice, “There isn’t a thing in the world he wouldn’t do for you, darling. I think he’s rather smitten.”

The corner of her mouth twitches with a smile, but she’s too absorbed in thought to give the comment any real acknowledgement. After a pause, she announces, “I think I need to go out there myself. To Korriban. Surprise him. I may do that, tomorrow.”

“Alright,” he concedes. “Whatever you think.” And then, after a beat, he adds, “But take Bri’ahl along, will you? There was that issue with the security fields, the other day, and I think I’d feel better if he lent it his rather unique personal touch.”

At that, Annihila does smile, entirely impressed by the remark. “I can bring Bri.” With a few taps on her datapad, she sends him a message and schedules the transport. He’ll see it when he gets back to his little room, and she knows he’ll be delighted. Finally, she turns to face her husband, and her smile turns to an expression of shock. “Armitage, what have you done to yourself?”

“What?” He bristles, indignant, as he runs a hand through his hair. “You don’t approve?”

He’s changed his hair, for the first time in years. The back and sides are shaved down close, but the top is still long. Side-parted, and swept back from his face.

“ _Why_?” she finally manages.

His eyes flit away before he replies. “I was tired of looking at the grey. At my temples.”

“Armitage,” she murmurs, a hint of condescension in her voice, “You look like a scoundrel.”

He exhales a disbelieving laugh. “That’s no way to speak to your Emperor!”

“It is if he looks like a scoundrel.” She reaches a hand out to him. “Come here.”

He acquiesces, setting his drink down and stepping up to the back of the couch. She traces gentle fingertips along the short hair, sending shivers down his spine. She can’t deny, it’s very pleasing to the touch. She knows she’ll be running her fingers along it until she falls asleep, tonight.

“There’s nothing left for me to grab onto,” she finally says.

He laughs, guiding her hand higher. “You’ll just have to adjust your grip, darling,” he says, working her hand into a gentle fist on the back of his head.

She pulls him down, laughing softly against his lips before kissing him.

“Come to bed, Ani,” he commands.

She acquiesces without argument.

“You look thin,” he remarks, removing his shirt and sitting on the edge of the bed to watch her undress. He’s taking in all of the juts of bone, the sinew cording over her shoulders. The deep hollow below her sternum.

“No,” she reassures him, stepping out of her gown, “No, I feel strong.”

“Your body can’t keep up with your spirit,” he points out, remembering all too well those tortured few months, so early on in their reign. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

“No,” she says again, crawling up onto the bed, “I feel strong.” She slips around behind him, thighs either side of his, and runs her hands up his bare back. He’s stiff, straight-spined and tense. The day’s concerns still cling to him, she can hear them running rampant through his mind.

“Stars,” he breathes, bringing a hand to his forehead. “I am so completely fed up with Devaron and Bestine. If it’s not one thing, out there, it’s another. And I know I ought to just leave them to handle it amongst themselves, but I’m afraid you’ve created a monster, with that little stunt you pulled on Thama, and now public dismemberment seems yet another favor that the Galaxy is going to try and buy from us. As if there’s anything in this universe that could ever be _bought_ from _you,_ darling, I really don’t think they understand their Empress at all. Even still—"

“Armitage,” she interrupts, shaking him lightly, “ _Relax_.”

He exhales a tired laugh. “I’m afraid you’ll rather have to _make_ me, darling.”

She places a hand over his heart, pressing into his spine with the other. Her palms burn momentarily, and at once, he feels the tension in his limbs fall away. He sinks into her, head falling back onto her shoulder.

“Ah, I do love you, after all,” he murmurs.

“I know you do,” she smiles, pressing her lips to his neck.

“You haven’t changed, you know,” he remarks distantly, seeming entirely incapable of silence tonight, “Not in all the years. You look precisely the way I remember you, the first time I saw your face, in that… Ah, that damn transport from Starkiller.”

“I know,” she nods, “It’s a strange sort of curse, I think.”

“Curse,” he scoffs, “How dare you.”

“What?”

“As if youth and beauty were such a burden.”

“They will be,” she says, holding him to her. “When all that I love is gone, and I’m forced to remain.”

He places a hand over hers as it clutches his chest, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I’ll have them seal me into your tomb, along with you,” she announces, without so much as a shred of irony. “I’ll crawl into your coffin and suffer through slow death, my arms wrapped around you just as they are, now. We’ll be a pile of bones together, until all the suns of our Galaxy burn out, all the seas run dry, and all the mountains grind to dust.”

He rolls his eyes. “Annihila, _really_.”

She places a hand on his cheek, forcing him to turn and look at her. “You are all that I love. Only you. Everyone else in this Galaxy could perish, and I wouldn’t care for an instant. _We_ are all that matters.”

He sighs, as of yet unmoved by these dramatics. “Ani…”

_“Only you,”_ she emphasizes, “All my life.”

“Alright, then.” The Emperor agrees, slightly baffled. “Only me, _stars,_ Ani.”

“ _Now, fuck me_.” It’s a command, pitched so low that he can’t be sure if she’d said it aloud, or implanted the thought directly into his head.

She knows it’s what he needs, now. She knows it like she knows _breathing_ , because she knows _him_. After the day he’s had, he needs to feel some kind of control.

The order is a line of fire snapping in Hux’s stomach. Twelve years, and that’s still all it takes to send him reeling. And he doesn’t need to be told twice. Annihila smiles wickedly, silently celebrating this easy victory as the bright, fierce spark of him expands to fill the space between them.

In an instant, he’s turned around and his mouth is on hers. Hard, crushing. Tongue vibrating with his moan. He’s laying her back, feeling her bleed into him, and at once, his arousal is blown body-wide. He knows what she wants from him, tonight, and he’s all too eager to give it. He _needs_ this.

Her hands are tugging at his belt, whipping it off and away, struggling with buttons and zips. He rises to his knees, clutching at the back of her head, and then he’s suddenly enveloped in the warmth of her mouth. Her hands clutch at his hips, tugging him closer, and she moans like she’s starving for it. She _is_ starving for it. If he wasn’t fully hard before, he is now.

He pushes so hard that her nose brushes against his stomach, and he exhales a shuddering, “ _Fff—uck_!”

She makes an appreciative sort of sound at that, tongue pressing up along his length. It makes his head swim.

He shakes her roughly. “Look at me.”

She does. Her eyes are hazy and half-lidded, their usual razor-sharp edge softened into something so needy. It’s a look that tells him she’s desperate to do whatever he tells her, and that kind of power is intoxicating. More intoxicating than all the thrones and palaces and ships in the Galaxy.

He starts slow, more out of necessity than anything, dragging her back and forth across his length. If he lets his eagerness get the better of him now, it’ll be over too quickly. He wants to linger on this. He wants it to _last_. And she’s taking it so well. Taking each increasingly-violent snap of his hips, and the way his fist is tightening in her hair. After a while, he feels her throat spasm, feels her chest hitch, and her fingernails dig momentarily into the skin of his thighs.

His eyes flutter a little, teeth sinking into his own lip. “That’s it, darling,” he hisses, “ _Choke_ on it. You’re so… _So_ good.”

It isn’t often that he’s this talkative, but it doesn’t surprise her that he’s like this, tonight. Annihila’s response comes in the form of an insistent groan, and he can’t take it for one more second. With a rough handful of her hair, he jerks her away. She struggles through a ragged inhale, a string of saliva glistening between her lower lip and the head of his cock. He hauls her up into a kiss, rough and sure and _perverse_ , and then he’s casting her away again.

“Face-down,” he commands, shedding the rest of his clothing.

She’s exquisite, like this. Stretching out before him like a thing to be devoured, all long, lean lines; her bright, pale skin holding some glow. Her hands ball into fists in the sheets and she spreads her legs, curving like an animal in heat. Begging.

“No,” he snaps, delivering a sharp and satisfying slap to her flank. “Not like that.”

She snarls in frustration, kicking lightly as he settles into place above her, thighs either side of hers. Trapping her. He wraps a hand around his cock and strokes a few times; fast, filthy, utilitarian.

“You want it?” he pants.

“ _Yes_.”

“Make me want to give it to you,” he insists, pressing the head of his cock against her hungry, twitching opening. A blunt tease.

“Please,” she begs, “Please, my Starkiller, I– I n-need— Fuck… fuck…. _Fuck me_.”

He slams in to the hilt and she screams in pleased agony. He knows it doesn’t hurt her, not really. This is the one place where _nothing_ really hurts, where everything makes sense. Because she is a thing so wild, so powerful and beautiful, and she is _his_.

“Fuck,” he breathes, pushing into her with his entire weight. Pushing until it does hurt. “ _Fuck_ , Ani—"

He takes rough, bruising handfuls of her ass to drag her hips back and forth, impaling her again and again, using her like she’s a thing that belongs to him, _because she is_. He plants one hand beside her head, wrapping the other in her hair to pull, pull, _pull_. He mates her like they’re beasts, and this is his bitch’s season. Annihila claws at the bed, panting and shaking, taking it all. Taking it so well. The noises she makes are desperate, high-pitched non-words; any semblance of coherent speech successfully fucked out of her.

But he can hear her. She doesn’t need to speak, to make herself heard. And what she says… _Exquisite_.

“That’s my girl,” he grunts, “That’s my girl, yes, come here, I want to look at you, I want to see your face, that beautiful fucking face—”

His sudden withdrawal makes her whine in protest, but it’s a momentary thing. He falls back to his knees, dragging her up into his lap, and then he’s inside her again. He hauls her roughly into position, manages to angle right into that place that makes her writhe in satisfaction. Her arousal is sharp and acerbic, he can feel it. With one arm wrapped around her back and the other laced between her breasts to clutch at her throat, he resumes his violent conquest.

She’s riding him, now, as much as she’s being ridden. They move in unison, move like they’re one beast, because they are, they always have been, and this is where they _belong_. Locked together, laser-focused on the same goal, climbing higher and higher. Hux’s eyes are fixed on her face, watching the wetness rise on her bitten-pink lips. Those full, intoxicating, inhuman lips. The hands on him claw, the words hissed in his ear laced with praise and insult.

“ _Behave_ ,” he snaps, forcing two fingers between her lips to press down on her tongue. “Behave.”

Her eyes flutter and roll back. Only for him does she _ever_ behave. All at once, the Emperor’s heart is so full that he's afraid it might break his chest apart. He can feel the Force vibrating around them, like a symphony, so bright and clear that it borders on overwhelming. It isn't Shadow. She’s shown him enough of it that he can recognize it, by now. But it's not the Light, either. It's something else altogether, something that’s just _them_. It only ever happens at times like these, when she’s stripped down to bare bones and raw nerves. Vulnerable. _His_. Doing what he says not because she _has_ to, like everyone else in the Galaxy, but because she craves it. Because she loves him.

“That’s right, my beauty,” he coaxes, breathless, “So good for me, so _good_ , you’re close, now, aren’t you?”

She moans something around his fingers, all strained vowels. _Yes_.

“Are you going to come, for me?”

She nods, or does her best to, and he exhales sharply.

“Then do it—" A very risky thought occurs to him. It’s a dangerous, impulsive idea. But if it lands, then the payoff… “— _Lazy slut_.” Her own twisted term of endearment, thrown back at her.

It works. Does it _ever_ work. She screams in broken, wrecked lust, fire crawling across her skin in unrelenting waves. He gives her no quarter, fucking her straight through it. Using her body, riding out her pulses with all the brutality she likes until she’s squirming and writhing, nearly climbing off of his cock in an attempt to escape the overstimulation. He holds fast, doesn’t let her get away.

But it’s all he can take. “Fuck, Ani, yes, yes, _yes_ —"

He drives up as deep as he can, holds her there with a bruising grip on her throat, and comes so hard it hurts. Lights pop behind his eyes, he’s distantly aware of her clinging, clinging, and some kind of wordless exaltation in his ear. He feels held by her, so held and so powerful and so _safe_. He looks up at her with the kind of startled devotion that ends worlds.

_Yes_ , he thinks. _Only her_.

“I was furious with you, that day, you know.”

Annihila blinks away the encroaching haze of sleep. They’re laying head to foot, and she’s wound so comfortably through his legs. She cranes her neck to look at him, but he seems to be miles away, staring up at the ceiling.

“What?”

“On Starkiller,” he says. “The… The day we fired it. Hosnia.”

Not staring at the ceiling, she realizes, but rather at something much, much further away. He’s looking back across the Galaxy, back through the years. She smiles, settling her cheek onto the top of his foot.

“I know you were, my love,” she acknowledges.

“I spent rather a lot of my time being furious with you,” he sighs, lacing his fingers together beneath his head. “Back then.”

“I know.”

Hux closes his eyes. “I wish I hadn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major content warning for the next chapter, do NOT continue without noting the Archive Warnings!


	12. Chapter 12

The night is still, and the sky is bright with stars when Darth Krayt makes his march up the Processional Way. H’voc is with him, a few paces behind. Wrend is waiting for them in the doorway, as discussed.

“My Lords,” he greets, bowing deeply.

“Are they asleep?” Krayt asks, yellow eye glowing out from beneath the hood of his cloak.

“Yes. In the residence,” he informs them, “And the Knights of Ren?”

Krayt looks expectantly to his apprentice.

“The Knights of Ren are poised for slaughter on Korriban,” the Nagai announces, voice devoid of emotion. Simply stating a fact. “The _dzayari_ await our execution order.”

“Good,” Wrend appraises. “Good. That’ll simplify things.”

“ _Stop_!” someone suddenly shouts.

The Sith Lord looks up to see a cadre of robed Acolytes sprinting down from the palace. His lips twist into a cruel, mocking smile.

“We won’t allow this!” their leader announces.

“Oh, no?” Krayt condescends.

“ _No_!” he insists, “Lord Annihila is the One Sith of prophecy, and we will lay down our lives to defend hers!”

Krayt exhales a kind of hollow, mirthless chuckle, nodding to his apprentice. “And so you shall.”

H’voc draws his blade, and the night burns red. Krayt turns away and continues his march.

“No, wait, _wait_ —!”

The hum and clash of the lightsaber lasts only for a few moments, and then H’voc is jogging to catch up with his Master again. Though he seems calm, and sure of what it is they’re about to do, there is a tangle of red noise bursting at the seams of his mind.

“You and I made a deal,” Krayt pointedly reminds him.

H’voc nods in solemn agreement. “I know.”

“The Emperor is yours, do with him what you will,” Krayt allows, “But do not kill him yet.”

He bristles. “I get it, Krayt.”

As they approach the corridor to the residence, Krayt stops. “There’s a machine, aboard my ship,” he says to Wrend, “Have the _Rizûti_ assemble it somewhere secluded.”

The Acolyte bows. “ _Char, Sith’ari_.” With that, he scurries away.

A satisfied smile spreads across Krayt’s face as, together, he and his apprentice make for the sealed door ahead. His satisfaction only grows as they slip into the residence, smooth and silent as shadows. And by the time he is standing over the sleeping form of Darth Annihila, still wrapped around her husband, Lord Krayt is all but grinning. He reaches out, makes a fist in her hair, and pulls.

* * *

_“I tried to warn you, Nul.”_

When the Empress is thrown back into consciousness, the first thing she notices is the pain. Just a dull ache for now, but everywhere at once. It pulses across every inch of her skin, radiating out from between her ribs, scraping through the marrow in her bones, lingering behind her eyes. And then she realizes that she’s upside down. Hanging, but entirely secure. The bonds are wrapped around her torso, holding her wrists pinned to her sides. But they’re _writhing_. It’s as though she’s being held in the arms of a living thing. She blinks away the haze of unconsciousness, staring down at the floor.

“Good. You’re alive.”

She jerks instinctively, and the pain spikes. The ache climbs to a sharp, searing heat. She screams. But, after a moment, it recedes to the pulsing throb once more. Holding her on the brink of agony. Threatening. And then Krayt steps into her field of view, those mismatched eyes meeting hers.

“The assassination attempt,” she pants raggedly, “On Cantonica. It was all you. It was only ever you. To earn my trust.”

“Yes.”

The burst of rage and fury she feels cannot be contained. The lights overhead flicker, walls creaking as the flames rise to her fingertips. And then the agony returns, tenfold. It snatches the scream from her throat. Her mouth falls open, eyes flying wide. It feels as though her chest is caving in on itself, crushed by the fist of Darth Krayt.

“Do you like it?” he asks, beginning to pace back and forth as he observes her suffering. “The Vong call it the Embrace of Pain. The more you struggle to escape, the more pain it inflicts. Part organic, and part mechanical, as most of their technology is. And it’s especially punishing for those of us with Force sensitivity.”

Every muscle in her body is tight; so tight that she’s distantly afraid she’ll break her own bones. Blackness is beginning to creep at the edges of her vision, red spots popping before her eyes. Finally, the pain abates, and a ragged, relieved scream tears from her throat.

Krayt laughs. “Such _fury_ in you now. You ought to thank me. By my estimate, this is the closest to Dark perfection you’ve been in years.”

She tries to speak, but her tongue fights against her efforts. The best she can manage is a series of wordless, pathetic noises.

“You’re doing well, my Lord,” he praises. “At least as well as I did. Better than H’voc.”

“W-where’s A- _Armitage_?” she finally manages, hands balling into fists. She’s rewarded with the sensation that the skin is being flayed from her palms, and so she relaxes them.

“H’voc has him,” Krayt reveals conversationally, still pacing.

“Where?” she demands, struggling to keep the words coming, even as the pain rises again, “ _Where_?”

“Does it matter? I would think that H’voc is the last man you’d want your husband left alone with.”

Icy panic floods her veins as she pictures it, so fast it makes her vision flicker. The litany of red horrors that H’voc could inflict on him, were he so inclined.

And he is so inclined.

“Is _hhh_ … _Dead_?” she quivers.

“No. He has so much more to experience, before I grant him the mercy of death. Though…” Krayt chuckles darkly, “You and I both know that grasping little slut is more than capable of taking a beating.”

Her chest heaves with breathless sobs, eyes rolling back in their sockets as she wails, “D-don’t you t-t- _touch him_!” She thrashes wildly. Tries to use the Force to free herself. And she’s punished even more severely than she’d been the first time.

“The Embrace of Pain can take many forms,” Krayt explains casually, “Needles, electric shock, acid, stretching of the joints and ligaments. I felt them all. But since our time together will be so brief, I thought that flame, or at least the simulation of it using biotoxins, would be most appropriate. I know how complicated a relationship you have with fire, my Lord.”

Again, she feels the seductive pull of unconsciousness looming overhead. There’s only so much pain that a body can experience before it shuts down, and she welcomes that oblivion. She closes her eyes, stretching and yearning for it. But the Embrace does not allow it. Just as it had before, the pain recedes. Rolling back like a wave upon a shore, laying her bare.

“Twi’lek…” she murmurs, head rolling to the side in her delirium. She has tears stinging her eyes, streaming down her forehead.

He pauses his pacing, looking to her in confusion. “What? Tsunaina?”

“ _NO_! Th- _thhh_ … _Boy I killed_!”

“Innocent,” Krayt confirms.

She exhales sharply. “Why?”

He grimaces like he’s perturbed by the question. “You’re talking far too much and far too well, my Lord, I think I ought to increase your dose—”

“ _Why_?”

He sneers. “Because I had seen how trusting you are of your friends.”

Her fury is mounting, and her pain along with it. But she can’t stop. She needs to know. “Why _nnn_ … Why save me? You could’ve— Mmm, you could’ve just k-k-killed me then! Been d— Ahh, _done with it_! Thhh… Ahh, _years_ of subterfuge!” Through gritted teeth, she forces the words out. “ _Years_ , Krayt, the _l-l-love_ shared betw— Bet— Y-yyou were _mmm_ — my _brother_!”

He scoffs as though the statement has offended him. “I did not come all this way to assassinate you, only to find myself hunted across the Galaxy until the end of time by your Force-null _pet_ ,” he snaps, mockingly, “No, _ri Sith’ari_ , you should’ve studied your Bane more carefully. I am no assassin. I am your _usurper_.”

She’s hit with another bolt of vivifying pain, crawling across her nerves like wildfire. This time, when it recedes, she’s left shaking and seizing with the aftershocks. Each breath is a battle, forcing the cage of her chest to keep expanding, keep contracting.

“But you are right about one thing,” Krayt murmurs, stepping up close. He lays his hands against her cheeks, stilling her convulsions. “Look at me, now, Annihila,” he coaxes, gently opening her eyes.

She blinks, her eyes rolling blindly for a moment before her gaze finally finds his. His face is very, very close. She can feel his breath against her lips.

“Despite what you may think, there is love, in this,” he whispers, running his thumbs along her cheekbones, “I didn’t expect that. But in the moment that I understood you well enough to defeat you, I found that I had also come to love you.” He drags his nose along hers, lips brushing against her forehead as he speaks. “I have seen… _All_ of you, Niha. I know your secret hopes, all those… Dark desires you keep. I have felt the doubt that gnaws away at you in the night. I know what haunts you.”

She blinks hard, sending another hot spill of tears down her forehead.

“The pain of Kylo’s death…” He exhales sharply. “ _Unbearable_. Even now.”

“S-stop,” she commands, feeling the wave of agony begin to swell once more.

“Does Armitage know how often you think of him?” he asks, “Your great love?”

“He’s not,” she sobs, trying to wrench her face from his grip.

“Yes, he is,” Krayt says, in a tone that borders on reassuring. “You hide nothing from me. You and I… We are one.”

Another wave of tears cascades down her forehead.

“No,” he croons, “No tears, now. It’s such a waste of beautiful suffering.”

“ _Stop_.” It’s not a plea, she tells herself. It’s still a command. She’s still giving commands.

“Stop?” he exhales. “My Lord, we’ve only just begun.”

* * *

Hands bound behind her back, and wrapped hastily in a dressing gown, the Empress walks through her palace for the last time. Krayt’s hand is clamped around her neck from behind, keeping her upright, forcing her onward. The halls are empty and silent, and the sun is beginning to crest over the horizon. But no speeder traffic can be seen through the windows. The sky is entirely still.

Though a mere eight hours have passed since Darth Krayt made his march up the Processional Way, it feels to Annihila as though years have elapsed.

The manacles she wears now are yet another Vong horror produced by her captor. But, unlike the Embrace, they do not punish her for using the Force. Instead, they cut her off from it entirely. It’s an empty, hollowed-out feeling; as though she’s simply piloting a corpse from place to place. No life, no color, no energy or power coursing beneath her skin. Just meat. Null, and deadened.

But she knows as well as Krayt does that the manacles are unnecessary. They’re but a tangible symbol of this final subjugation. There is no fight left, in Darth Annihila.

When they reach the closed doors, her captor forces her to stop.

“Listen for a moment,” he commands, “Can you hear them?”

Though the sound is muffled by the stone walls, it is unmistakable all the same. It’s the roar of a crowd. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of voices, surging and howling. They are screaming for the blood of their Empress. And, like a pack of starving dogs, they’re circling for the feast.

 _They can have it_ , she thinks. _Let them learn what true horror is._

Krays exhales a mirthless chuckle. “They will. This Galaxy is long overdue for the wrath of Sith rule. _True_ Sith rule.”

“And may you reign forever,” she whimpers, swaying as she struggles to remain upright.

He pays no mind to the backhanded remark. “Now I want you to listen with your heart,” he instructs. “That little, black heart that you try so desperately not to have.”

“No.”

“Really listen. The manacles won’t stop you.”

She shakes her head in refusal, panic beginning to mount. She’s afraid of what she’ll hear. “ _No_.”

“Here,” he says, “I’ll help you.”

She cries out as her mind is blown wide, rent open by Krayt’s cruel hands.

He closes his eyes, a hungry smile spreading across his lips. “Can you hear him?” he asks in a whisper, “I can.”

_So, this is how our Empire dies. With thunderous applause._

The heart of her heart is waiting for her on the other side of the doors. And he is so frightened.

“His thoughts are so loud,” Krayt remarks idly. “They always have been.”

The Emperor’s mind is reeling, now, his focus flitting chaotically between disjointed thoughts _. Where is she? Ah, my arm, my— Where is she? She’s dead. I can’t feel her, just HURTS, fuck, she has to be dead._

“Armitage Hux, spine of string,” Krayt mocks. “Thin as a slip of paper and just as useless.”

Brendol’s poison, snatched from the hidden recesses of her mind.

 _I wish I could’ve seen her just one last time_ , he thinks. _Before I died_.

Annihila can feel the tear track down the cheek of her beloved.

“Have you realized, yet, that he was the instrument of your downfall?” Krayt asks.

Her head rolls limply to the side. “What are you talking about? Just get it over with, Krayt, just _kill_ us alr—”

“No,” he snaps, “I want you to _know_. I tried to warn you. For years, I tried. You could have been so powerful. You could’ve ruled this Galaxy for centuries. Instead, you bound yourself to him, and in doing so, tied one hand behind your back.”

She sways on her feet, feeling the seductive pull of unconsciousness tugging once more at her shoulders. Trying to drag her down through the floor.

“So, in these final moments,” he says, “As you try and search for someone to blame, know that you need look no further than your own bed.”

She exhales a hollow laugh, looking up into those mismatched eyes. “No, Krayt. I think I’ll blame you.”

His lips curve into a dark, ravenous smile, his eyes taking on their predatory quality. “Good girl.”

“Wait—” she pants, eyes pressed shut, “Just… Wait.”

“What?” he snaps.

Her hands ball into fists. “My parents, my…”

“ _What_?”

“Am I… Am I the blood of Shelish?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

A ragged sob tears from her throat, raw and painful. Krayt smiles, uncaring.

The palace doors swing open with a wave of his hand, and the wall of sound rising from the crowd is nearly enough to knock her over. But Krayt holds her upright, and forces her out onto the palace steps.

And then she sees him. Stripped to the waist and bound as she is, with a metal bit forced between his teeth. Kneeling at H’voc’s feet. Not beautifully wounded, as he so often is after their more vicious nights together. Not some delicate bruise clinging to his cheekbone, or a small trickle of blood falling so teasingly from his lips, no. He has been utterly _broken_. His face is nearly unrecognizable for the beating he has taken, eyes all but swollen shut. His nose has been broken more than once, and she can see a sliver of white cartilage between his eyes. One of his arms juts out at a sickening angle, indicating a dislocated shoulder. If the surrounding blood splatter is any indication, much of the abuse occurred here. In front of his people.

And the crown. His brilliant, glimmering crown. The _real_ one, not the laurels. By the look of it, H’voc has stitched it to his scalp.

_My Starkiller._

His head turns slowly, and she can feel his agony as though it were her own. And when his eyes meet hers, he’s hit with a wave of something like relief and resignation, _yes_ and _no_ wrapped up into one. It threatens to pull the beating heart from his chest.

All of his brilliance and frustration. Beauty, glory, and horror. His _devsta’rak._

 _It’s alright, now_ , he tells himself, as a sob bubbles up from his chest. _She’s here._

“Kneel,” Krayt commands, shoving her hard between the shoulder blades.

Annihila does not submit. Instead, she stumbles over to place herself between the Sith Lords and her mate. She presses her thigh into his intact shoulder, and he presses back, trapping her leg against his neck.

“No,” she spits.

The crowd hisses and jeers.

“ _Kneel_ ,” Krayt repeats.

She shakes her head in defiance. “I will not.”

It all happens so quickly. Krayt nods to H’voc. H’voc draws his saber. The crowd goes still and silent, waiting with bated breath. The blade hums and flashes. And then Annihila’s scream rings out, so loud and piercing, as her legs are severed just below the knee.

Stunned, gasping, she falls hard to her side. Hux is shouting something around his gag, thrashing in futility. H’voc takes her by the throat to haul her roughly to her knees.

“ _Stay_ ,” he commands, “Or I’ll take his, too.”

“People of Coruscant!” Krayt shouts, arms thrown wide, “Today, you have the privilege of bearing witness to the death of this false regime, and the birth of a new Galactic order from its corpse!”

Annihila blinks hard, grimacing against the personal wound.

 _Ani_.

She turns, gazing at the love of her life as he kneels beside her.

 _Does it hurt?_ he asks, glancing down at her severed legs.

_No, my love. I’m alright._

_That’s good,_ he nods limply. _Good_.

Overhead, Krayt is still making his speech, whipping the crowd back up into a frenzy. “Under the stead of these self-serving rulers, your Galaxy writhes in chaos and disorder!”

 _We did well together, you know_ , the Empress reassures her husband. _Weak, unremarkable empires do not burn out so brilliantly as this._

 _No_ , he concedes. _They don’t._

“True governance requires a man of vision! And I am that man of vision! What celestial body is more luminous than a _singularity_? Hiding in plain sight but more powerful than all! And now, backed by the strength of Korriban, I have come to liberate you!”

 _Armitage, I’m sorry,_ she says. _I’m sorry for everything._

 _No_ , he swiftly negates. _I would do it all again, if it meant another lifetime by your side._

“Yes,” she whispers aloud, as her vision begins to swim, “I would, too.”

Their eyes meet for a long moment, and they both feel the weight of so many things said. Needless cruelty, petty bickering.

_“Keep my name out of your mouth.”_

_“If I wanted to watch you struggle with your own ineptitude, I’d stand on your bridge all day.”_

_“I like you begging.”_

_“Spoilt child.”_

_“Half-breed witch.”_

_“Get out of my sight.”_

And yet, for each jab, each wound, each drop of poison, there is so much more that remains unsaid. Tenderness. Praise. It was understood, of course, but somehow… Somehow, never said often enough.

_“You are such a warrior, Ap’lek Ren.”_

_“I would set entire worlds ablaze at your feet, just to see the flames dance in your eyes.”_

_“Only you, all my life.”_

_"We are all that matters."_

_“Heart of my heart.”_

_“Devsta’rak’i.”_

They’ve had _years_ , together. Years in which to smile and laugh and ponder the great mystery of one another. But now, in this moment, they finally understand: no amount of time could ever have been enough. After all, what paltry things are years, when it comes to the measurement of love?

And then the Emperor’s eyes flit upward, and Annihila can feel his heart pick up. A low, terrified whine edges from his throat.

H’voc is approaching, saber drawn. The saber she gave him.

Krayt kneels beside the Empress. He wraps a hand around her jaw, forcing her to watch. His voice slithers past her ear on a venomous whisper, “Beg for his life.”

Annihila looks into the eyes of her beloved and asks, “Would it make a difference?”

Krayt smiles, and his lips brush against her cheek as he whispers, “No.”

H’voc is standing over her kneeling husband. The crowd is cheering.

 _“_ Don’t look,” she implores, stomach twisting with fear.

 _I have to_ , he says, and his thoughts are eerily calm. _It’s important_.

 _“_ Armitage, look at me,” she begs, as H’voc settles his blade over the neck of her beloved. “I love you. And this is only a moment.”

Blue eyes meet silver, for one final time. _I love y—_

The scream that tears from Annihila’s throat expresses agony of a kind neither flame nor weapon could inflict. The crowd writhes and cheers. And the head of Armitage Hux rolls down the palace steps.

Krayt pats her on the cheek, and withdraws. _I like how that made you feel._

The Empress’ eyes trace along her assembled people in numb disbelief, catching here and there as they jostle and crane to meet her gaze. Snarling. Furious. A line of her _Rizûti_ hold them at bay at the bottom of the steps.

But all she can feel is the empty space where _he_ should be.

The sun burns so blindingly on the distant horizon. It sends such incongruously delicate shafts of golden light between the skyscrapers. The blackness of night has yielded, now, to a deeply red dawn. The color of her beloved’s hair, running through her fingers.

The color of his blood, pouring down the steps.

And then Darth Annihila looks up, into the glowing eyes of her executioner. His face is painted with her _Jato_.

“Traitor,” she quivers.

H’voc does not respond.

“Listen to me,” she snarls, “If you strike me down, I will become more powerful than you could ever imagine.”

Krayt scoffs. “No, you won’t.”

Above her, H’voc’s lightsaber hums through the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They fully had it coming, though. And this is really a frying-pan-fire situation for the Galaxy, so I hope everyone's happy.


	13. Chapter 13

Matthew Wyx sprints through the _Supremacy_ , clinging to a heavy duffel bag. His brow is beaded with sweat from stress and exertion, his glasses beginning to fog and slip down his nose. All of his limbs are burning, seeming to match the burning panic in his chest. He skids to a graceless halt outside the entrance to Bri’ahl’s room, pounding frantically against the door. He doesn’t stop until it opens.

Bri looks up at him, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His worn, black sweater hangs off-kilter, exposing one of his shoulders. “Matt?” he asks blearily. And then, all at once, his eyes go wide. “Oh shit, oh, fuck, what time is it? My transport—"

“ _Shh_!” Matt shoves his friend back into the room, closing and locking the door behind him. “Quiet!”

Bri stumbles a little, still trying to get his bearings. “Hey, what’s going on?”

And then Matt dumps the contents of his duffel bag onto the bed. A full set of Stormtrooper armor, and a TIE flight suit and helmet.

“W-wha—?”

“Put this on,” Matt commands, thrusting a few random armor pieces into his arms. “We need to go. _Now_.”

“Hey, no,” Bri protests, still half-asleep, “Matt, what’s going on?”

All at once, his face is clasped between large, shaking hands, the warmth of Matt’s breath puffing against his face. “Listen to me. Hux and Annihila are dead.”

Bri chuckles nervously. “What? No, I was just with her, last night!”

“They’re _dead_. Do you understand? There’s been a coup.”

He squirms away, indignant. “Hey, that’s not funny. I need to get to my transport, Matt, we’re going to Kor—”

“I’m not joking.”

“Yeah?” he challenges, “And how did _you_ hear about it?”

“Coruscant comms got a message out, just before they went dark,” Matt explains, hastily stripping his green, technician’s jumpsuit away. “Bri, _please_. Put the armor on.”

That gives him pause. They are down on Coruscant, right now, he knows that for sure. “Coruscant… Comms?” He shakes his head. “No, this is a m-mean joke. Stop joking.”

“I’m not.” Standing in just his underwear, Matt takes his friend by the shoulders. “Bri, listen to me. They—” He swallows hard, bracing for the pain he knows he’s about to inflict on him, “They hung her body from the Council Spire.”

After a beat, his face lights up with relief. “Oh! No, she’s just meditating! She does that, where she hangs up there, from the hooks. I’ve seen it, and so I know it _looks_ really scary if you don’t know what she’s doing, but—”

“ _Bri_ ,” he insists, shaking him hard, “Her and Hux both. From the _outside_.”

His smile twitches, eyes flitting across Matt’s face as if searching for some sign of deception. “W-what?”

“They cut off their heads on the palace steps.”

All the color drains from his face. “They… What?”

Matt shakes his head bitterly, unable to look him in the eye as he murmurs, “There’s footage.”

Bri’ah’s eyes glaze a little, slipping out of focus for a second. And then the helpless little whimper that tears from his throat makes Matt’s heart feel like a ragged wound.

“Please,” he begs, “Put the armor on. We have to get you out of here.”

“N-no, why?” he moans, and Matt watches as the truth begins to take hold. Crushing him. “W-why can’t I go down there and see her? I wanna— I wanna _see_ her, Mattie! Someone should really get her d- _down_ from there, if—”

“Are you crazy?” he snaps, stepping hastily into the black flight suit, “You’re a member of the Imperial Court!”

“Yeah,” he argues, rubbing at his eyes, “ _Yeah_! Hey, I’m a— A member of the Court, so you have to do what I say, a-and I say to take me down there r-right this instant!” He stamps his foot weakly.

“Bri, it means they’ll be coming for you, next!”

“No—"

“ _Krayt knows exactly who and where you are_!”

He falters. “Kr-Krayt… Did it…?”

“Yes.”

Bri’ahl’s lip quivers for a second, and he looks almost like he’s going to keep arguing. But then, with a defeated wail, he collapses to the floor. He’s sobbing wildly, but no tears come. They never do. “No, no, no, no…” he moans, rocking back and forth, “ _Niha_ …”

“God dammit, Bri’ahl.” Matt groans in panicked frustration, wrapping his hands under his friend’s arms and hauling him limply to his feet. While he sways and weeps, Matt sets about putting the armor on for him. Coaxing the sweater off over his head, working his legs into the suit one by one, buckling the plating into place. All the while, murmuring soft reassurance. “I’m gonna get you out of here, okay? I’m gonna keep you safe. We’re gonna get dressed, and then get on a ship and get the hell out of here. No one’s gonna stop us, because I got disguises. You and me, Bri, we’re just gonna go. Okay?”

“G-go _where_?” he begs, head falling back limply.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, standing up and straightening the shoulders of Bri’s armor, “I don’t know, yet.”

“Coruscant.”

“ _Not_ Coruscant.” He thrusts the helmet into his hands. “Put that on.”

“Why?”

“ _Bri’ahl, if we don’t get off this ship, you are going to_ die!”

He flinches away at the sound of his shout, seeming to weep harder.

“Fuck,” Matt murmurs, “Fuck, I’m sorry. Here—” With shaking, uncooperative hands, he combs Bri’s long hair back, tying it into a messy ponytail. And then he takes the helmet back, and jams it onto his head. Good enough.

“I’m t-too _tall_ for a Stormtrooper,” he wails weakly, voice oddly distorted by the helmet.

“I know, buddy,” Matt reassures, pocketing his glasses to don his own TIE pilot helmet, “I know. And I’m too tall to fly cockpit. But we’ll make it work. We’ve gotta.”

“Okay.” He heaves a shuddering breath, trying to raise his hands to his eyes again before remembering he can’t. His arms fall weakly to his sides. “Okay. Thank you.”

Matt steps over to the door, hand hovering over the controls. “We’re gonna go straight to the main hangar, okay? Don’t talk to anyone, and don’t stop.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious,” he impresses, “You’re gonna see some shit out there, but none of it matters. All that matters right now is us. So, whatever you do, _don’t stop_.”

“Okay.”

The corridors are eerily still and quiet, at first, here in the belly of the ship. A few stunned techs seem to have emerged from their quarters to wander around aimlessly; glassy-eyed and silent. But as they ascend, the scene becomes more and more apocalyptic. Alarms are blaring, lights flashing. The crew is in a frenzy, sprinting every direction through the halls, screaming at one another. There’s a bottleneck near the escape pods, caused at least in part by the massive brawl that seems to have broken out. A few officers are scrambling along the edges of the crowd, trying to restore order, but they’re quickly taken down by their own troopers and pulled underfoot.

When the pass the pried-open doors to the bridge, Bri can’t contain his whimper of panic. The brawl for the escape pods pales in comparison to the genuine battle that seems to have ensued for control of the _Supremacy_. The floor is slick with so much blood, more than a few consoles cracked open and sparking. Some are even actively burning. And there’s blaster fire. So much blaster fire.

Bri freezes, staring open-mouthed at the carnage.

“ _Hey_!”

He glances up to see General Mitaka, bloody and bruised, imploring his attention.

“You, there!” he begs desperately, “Listen to me, go and get—” He never finishes, thanks to a point-blank blaster shot that renders his head a pink mist.

“Oh my god,” Bri’ahl gasps, and for a moment, he’s certain that he’s about to vomit. “Oh my god, oh god, oh—” He stumbles backwards, clutching at the helmet, trying to pry it away, and then a rough hand wraps around his arm.

“I said not to stop!” It’s Matt, dragging him onward. “ _Don’t stop_!”

By the time they reach the hangar, it’s all but picked clean. No transport vessels, no engineering ships or _Corvettes_. Someone’s even made off with Annihila’s T-3c. The handful of remaining TIEs are being fought over by a crush of pilots, officers, and Storm troopers, swarming the ships like ants. Occasionally, someone will manage to break from the crowd and scramble up for the cockpit, only to be hauled back down again and lost underfoot.

“Fuck,” Matt breathes, desperation mounting, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He clutches at his helmet, beginning to rock back and forth.

“Hey,” Bri’ahl whispers, touching him lightly on the arm. “What about that one?”

Matt turns to see the _Night Buzzard_ on the opposite end of the hanger, somehow still sealed, and mercifully unnoticed.

Just then, Admiral Mathys stumbles in from the corridor in uniform trousers and a singlet, his suspenders hanging down from his waist. In one hand, he clutches a half-empty bottle of Sullustan gin. In the other, his blaster. He raises his weapon towards the crowd of men fighting over the TIEs, closes one eye, and begins firing. Patient, measured, exacting shots. Picking them off, one by one. Bri screams. But the soldiers turn on their Admiral at once, charging over to tear into him with tooth and nail.

Matt grabs him by the hand. “Let’s go.”

They begin sprinting across the hanger.

To their shock, they run up against a sealed door. “Fuck, that’s why no one took it!”

“I-I think I can get it, though!” Bri announces in a furtive whisper, clawing haphazardly at the control panel, “C-can you get this off?”

“Yeah.” With a single, rough yank, Matt tears the casing away, exposing the tangle of wires and circuitry behind the keypad. “Go.”

At once, Bri gets to work. He mumbles and swears, fighting against the nearly prohibitive tremors in his hands. The wiring pops and sparks, singeing his fingertips, but he can’t stop. He _can’t_.

“Hey!” someone shouts, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Nothing,” Matt replies with unsettling calmness. “Bri, _hurry_!”

“Don’t touch that ship! That’s mine!”

“Got it!” Bri squeaks triumphantly, and the door slides open.

Matt doesn’t miss a beat, hauling his companion up the ramp towards the hatch. “No, it’s okay,” he says to their pursuant, “It’s fine.” He shoves Bri’ahl inside, and seals it behind them. Not a moment later, the pounding of fists begins on the other side of the durasteel.

“Wait, can you fly this?” Bri asks as they make for the cockpit. The air inside the ship hangs thick and stale.

“In theory.”

“In… What?”

“Yeah,” Matt replies, tearing his helmet away and settling into the pilot’s seat. “It’s Kylo Ren’s old ship, so, um… _Oubliette_ , uh… _Oubliette_ -class, modified hyperdrive, I— Yeah. I’ve read all about it. It’ll be fine. Just gotta get out of the hangar, and then the auto-pilot…”

“No, we’re gonna _die_ ,” he moans, removing his own helmet and collapsing gracelessly to the co-pilot’s seat. “We’re gonna die, Mattie…”

“No, we’re not!” he shouts, flicking switches and pushing buttons to bring the ship online, “No we’re not!”

“They’re gonna break _in_!”

“Bri, be quiet, now!” he begs, “Please!”

The engines stutter to life, spewing a plume of exhaust through the hangar.

“Shit. Um… Vents. Bri, find the vents.”

“They’re gonna catch us, they’re gonna track us and catch us, and then _Krayt’s gonna—_ "

“ _Vents_ , Bri’ahl!”

“ _Matt_!”

“Catch us how?” he demands, flicking switches at random until the windscreen is clear again. “Seriously, _how_? I’m radar, and you’re security! Between the two of us, that’s literally _all of the cloaking and threat detection_ for this entire stupid fucking Empire!!”

After a few more frantic seconds, and a lot more random button-pushing, Matt is finally able to coax the ship from the ground. It rises with a labored rattle, more than a little off-kilter. He tries to correct and level out, but something has begun rocking the ship back and forth.

Bri leaps up to look out of the side windscreen. “People are shooting at us!”

“Sit down and put your harness on!” Matt shouts, edging the ship forward in a series of awkward, uneven lurches. The massive, hangar doors have begun to slide open, baring the shimmering blue force field separating them from the void of space. “We’re gonna go! We’re almost there!”

“Okay,” Bri quivers, scrambling back over, “No, you put your harness on, too.”

“I’m kind of busy, right now!” he shouts, pounding his fist against the hull, “God, could that door _go any slower_?”

“It’s okay,” Bri tries to coax, as much for his benefit as Matt’s, “It’s okay, their blasters aren’t even doing anything to us!”

“Mother _fuck_! Slowest goddamn door in the Galaxy! Who the hell _built_ this ship?”

Needing desperately to feel like he’s actually helping, Bri’ahl steps over to fasten Matt’s harness for him. He has to loosen the straps substantially in order to get it to fit across his chest, and the violent shaking in his hands is only making it harder. “It’s okay,” he tentatively reassures, “You’re doing so great. You’re b-being really brave and like a r-really good friend right now.”

“Okay,” he nods, looking up into those cybernetic eyes, “Thanks.”

“Okay, you’re welcome.” Still shaking, Bri sinks into his seat and fastens his own harness. (These straps, incidentally, he has to tighten before they fit.)

Finally, the door has opened wide enough to allow them to exit. Anxiously, Matt adjusts his grip on the controls. _This is the hard part,_ he tells himself. _Thread the needle. Just thread the needle, and get him the hell off this ship_. “Are you ready?” he asks, trying to tamp down the quiver in his voice.

Bri’ahl nods, swallows hard. “Yeah.”

Without another moment’s hesitation, Matt slams the controls forward. Bri is thrown back in his seat, pressing his eyes shut, stifling the urge to scream. There’s a rough lurch to the side, the ear-splitting sound of scraping metal, and some alarms begin to screech and chime in protest. He can hear Matt shouting and swearing beside him, smashing haphazardly at the control panel, and then all at once, everything goes silent.

“Okay, we’re out!” Matt cries triumphantly, a hint of a laugh edging into his voice, “We did it, we’re out!”

Bri’ahl opens his eyes to find that the metal walls of the hangar are gone. It’s just space, now, just stars and blackness.

“Pull up the auto-pilot,” Matt commands, craning around to look back at the _Supremacy_ , “They’re gonna start shooting again, and the outside guns are a lot bigger!”

Bri frantically taps at the screen. “Where do we go?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know, just pick someplace! Far as fuck from here!”

He scrolls through systems in a panic. Corellia, Jakku, Korriban, Dathomir, Mandalore, Tatooine. “Everything is under Imperial control!” he wails, “There’s nowhere we can—”

“Bri—"

 _“Wait_! Wait, no, there’s an uninhabited planetoid on the edge of the Chiss Ascendancy, UIE-674639.”

“Fine!”

His pupils go wide, scanning back and forth across the lines of information at an inhuman speed. “Unclaimed, white sun, um… Chlorophyllic forests, so breathable air, fresh water— And the Chiss were good to Niha! The, um, the Grand Admiral really liked her, I think, so—”

“Fuck the Chiss!” Matt shouts, leaning over to confirm the coordinates, “They’ll never even know we’re there!”

At last, the auto-pilot takes over, and the Buzzard begins to align itself along the preset course. As it turns, the _Supremacy_ comes back into view on Bri’ahl’s side of the ship. A few explosions can be seen on the hull, popping and burning out. One or two decks seem to have de-pressurized, debris fanning out into space; the detonation itself frozen into that one, perfect, destructive moment. Nearly all of the Ion cannons are firing, along with volley after volley of anti-ship missiles.

“They’re stopping people trying to escape the planet,” Bri realizes aloud.

“Yeah, and they’re gonna try and stop us, too,” Matt remarks, searching frantically for some kind of cloaking activation. The hyperdrive can be heard spinning up, and the ship is beginning to rattle. “Fuck, I don’t think anyone’s even giving firing orders.”

The _Supremacy’s_ starboard Ion cannon is starting to pull dangerously towards centerline, well past the recommended safety tolerances. _Someone must’ve manually disabled my security parameters_ , he thinks oddly. The gunner is chasing an escape craft, as far as he can tell, trying to lead it, but each successive shot is edging closer and closer to…

“The other Ion cannon,” Bri remarks, pointing vaguely.

“Huh?”

All at once, his eyes go wide. “ _MATT, THE OTHER ION CANN_ —”

The word is forced back into his throat as the Buzzard is rocked by a massive, silent percussion. Bri snatches wildly for Matt’s hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing, squeezing.

 _“They shot their own cannon!”_ Matt shouts in a panic, _“Those stupid, stupid pieces of shit, they shot their own cannon_!”

In the split second before the hyperdrive kicks in, they can see a chain-reaction of explosions begin to snake across the length of the 60-kilometer-wide ship. Unzipping the hull, panel by panel.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Matt breathes, clutching Bri’s hand so tight that it’s beginning to hurt.

“Matt—"

“Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —”

At once, the Buzzard is thrust into hyperspace, leaving the ruins of the New Empire behind.

The sudden stillness leaves their ears ringing. It’s a long time before either of them can think of what to say. The weight of what they’ve just done, what they’ve just survived, seems to have settled over them both at once. Heavy, panic-inducing. Bri’ahl feels like he could scream. He wants to cry and wail and tear at the console in front of him and pound his fists against the windscreen until it cracks and breaks and kills him. It’s like a scream trapped in his throat, because it’s not fair, not fair, _not fair_ that everything he touches hurts him and everything that touches him gets hurt.

Matt’s breathing is loud. Distracting, or maybe grounding. Bri’ahl gazes across the cockpit towards his friend, and sees him for the first time through new eyes. He’s taking in each of the tiny details of his face as he stares, wide-eyed through the windscreen. The high angle of his jaw, the dark warmth of his eyes (even now, frightened as he is), and the way his hair curls around his too-big ears. And then he looks down into the gulf between them, and sees his hand still swallowed up in Matt’s grip.

He’s so afraid. And then again, he’s really not.

“Thank you,” Bri’ahl pants.

“Yeah,” Matt nods, swallowing dryly, “Yeah, of course. You’re— You’re welcome. We, um… We did it together.”

“Are, um… Are we gonna be okay?” Bri murmurs. And when Matt turns to look at him, he feels the breath snatched from his throat.

He blinks at Bri. “Huh?”

“Are w-we gonna be okay, do you think?” he repeats a little louder.

Matt nods, feeling the corners of his eyes begin to sting. “Yeah. We’re gonna be okay.”

* * *

H’voc of Nagi stands in the entrance of the Imperial Palace, eyes upturned towards the fruits of his labor as they hang so high above. Blood is still dripping from the corpses as they sway, creating a constellation of bright red all around him. He’d had to work the hooks beneath their collarbones, in order to hoist them up there. That was the only place secure enough to hold their weight, even with Niha’s missing legs.

It’s midday, now, and the sun burns high and bright. But still, no speeder traffic. The city planet is entirely stagnant. Holding its breath, waiting for what will come next.

H’voc expects that much of the Galaxy is the same way, today.

He should feel numb, he thinks. A Sith should have been able to take this in stride, and feel _nothing_. Shouldn’t he? Instead, he finds he’s actually frightened. And furious. Furious with Hux and Annihila and himself, but mostly Krayt. He thinks he hates Krayt, now.

More than anything, H’voc is tired. He can feel the Dark weighing heavily on him, like an ache in his bones. It’s in the deep, painful throbbing behind his eyes and the stiffness in his hands. A kind of dense and dead heat seems to hang in the air, threatening to bring him to his knees with exhaustion. A flicker in the back of his mind pulls his attention away, briefly, and he looks up in time to see the _Supremacy_ , no more than a little shape in the sky, split in two.

“You did well.”

H’voc grimaces, unable to look at his Master as he steps up beside him.

“I knew you would,” Krayt continues, following his gaze up to the hanging corpses. “You’ve always been impressive.”

“I did what you told me to do,” he snaps. _Just shut up, shut up,_ shut up, _before I kill you, too._

“You’re angry,” Krayt acknowledges coolly, “That’s good. You’re a Sith, you should be angry.”

H’voc exhales sharply through his nose, bringing a hand to his forehead.

“Yes, _ki trorin_. This is strength through wounding; the painful tearing of a muscle so that it heals stronger than before. And with this sacrifice, you have earned the right to call yourself a Sith Lord.”

His reply comes through gritted teeth. “Thank you, _ri Sith’ari_.”

“What’ll it be, then?” Krayt asks, “Darth Havoc?”

“Nihl,” he blurts, “Darth Nihl.”

“Nihl?” He frowns like the name tastes bitter on his tongue, and all at once, the war paint makes perfect sense. “No, I don’t like that.”

“Too bad. It’s not your name.”

“I’m the one who will have to say it all the time,” Krayt argues, “It ought to be Havoc.”

“It’s Nihl.”

Krayt huffs. “You owe nothing to a corpse.”

“I did what you asked!” he snaps, “I killed her! I’ll even concede that it needed to happen, that it was the natural course of evolution for our Order, but this?” He thrusts a finger skyward. Furious, accusatory. “The _Sith’ari_ Darth Annihila deserves more honor in death than this.”

After a long, tense beat, Darth Krayt verbalizes, “You loved her.”

“I love her, still.”

“It’ll fade,” he confidently dismisses.

“It won’t,” he snaps, “My name will be Darth Nihl, or it will be nothing at all.”

Krayt huffs in frustration. “Fine. _Darth Nihl_.” He says it like he’s mocking him.

Nevertheless, the victory emboldens him. “Bring her down,” he demands.

“No,” Krayt says definitively, shoving past his apprentice towards the stronghold. “She stays until the people absorb the message.”

“What message?” Nihl calls after him.

“That this is the dawn of a new Empire,” he replies, taking the first steps into his new palace, “And it will not fall so easily as the last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what? I'm about to say it.
> 
> Annihila getting fucking ((ganked)) like that was the best possible thing that could've happened to our beloved Techie. He needs a normal life, far away from any powerful, evil women. Even if there's powerful, evil woman who is nice to him, that's not what he needs. He needs a normal life, with someone who can give him everything part of themselves, with no weird agendas or asterisks. And he has that, now.
> 
> Also I bet you didn't think the whole story was gonna be about the sweetboys, lol


End file.
